


WANDS OUT!

by persephone_stone



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Alternate Universe, Blackmail, Blood, Enthusiastic Consent, Explicit Sexual Content, F/M, Happily Ever After, M/M, Manipulation, Mentions of Suicide, Murder Mystery, Only One Bed, Plot Twists, Police Chase, Shenanigans, Subterfuge, idiots to lovers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-28
Updated: 2020-11-23
Packaged: 2021-03-07 01:28:31
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 10
Words: 54,512
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26148700
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/persephone_stone/pseuds/persephone_stone
Summary: Albus Dumbledore appeared to have the perfect life: a successful career as a novelist, a loving family, and a dedicated staff. But when he is found dead of an apparent suicide on the morning of his 90th birthday, the life that seemed so perfect from the outside begins to unravel at the seams.With a team of investigators on the case, a greater mystery than any Albus could have written begins to unfold, full of lies, secrets, and murder. There’s only one thing to be sure of:everyoneis a suspect.Join your favorite HP characters on a manic murder mystery romp, adapted from the Rian Johnson movieKnives Out!Note:Reading this will not spoil the movie, and having seen the movie will not spoil the story. I invite you to enjoy both!
Relationships: Hermione Granger/Draco Malfoy, Theodore Nott/Harry Potter
Comments: 331
Kudos: 292





	1. The Beginning

**Author's Note:**

> WANDS OUT! is a labor of love that checks all my personal interest boxes of murder mystery + romance + hilarious shenanigans. I really hope you enjoy reading it as much as I've enjoyed writing it!
> 
> Please note that this story takes place in a very alternate universe, so check your canon expectations at the door! I have half of this fic written and the entire thing plotted/outlined, and am planning on weekly updates.
> 
> < \---------- >
> 
> This work literally wouldn't exist without the efforts of my alpha/beta/omega/zeta/pick a Greek character, [mightbewriting](https://archiveofourown.org/users/mightbewriting). She has been a sounding board, cheerleader, and editor and I can't thank her enough! She is also a brilliant writer who really needs no introduction, but if you have been living under a rock and haven't read her fics **Wait and Hope** or its prequel (currently posting!) **Beginning and End** , you should rectify that immediately.
> 
> Many thanks as well to the tireless beta skills of [granger_danger](https://archiveofourown.org/users/granger_danger), who is also an extremely talented writer and editor, and has helped me improve my own writing SO MUCH. 
> 
> And finally, thank you to the genius [PacificRimbaud](https://archiveofourown.org/users/PacificRimbaud), who was kind enough to give this chapter a final once-over to make sure it wasn't trash.

Morning sunlight filtered through the branches of the fabled trees of Sherwood Forest, giving the world a hazy, dream-like quality as it pierced the light fog that swirled just above the ground. Dew dripped from the leaves of the ancient, gnarled oak trees onto mossy boulders and spiky ferns, the landscape of the forest rich and otherworldly. Birds twittered cheerily as they hopped from branch to branch, the only sound to be heard for miles.

A crack of apparition shattered the stillness as Hermione Granger suddenly appeared in the forest, just outside the anti-apparition wards of her employer’s property. She hurried toward the stone hippogriffs flanking the tall wrought iron gates, goosebumps lifting the hair of her arms as the magical wards of the estate granted her entrance. Pulling her wool coat tighter around her thin frame, she hurried up the gravel drive, eyes trained on the ivy-covered walls of the manor appearing out of the fog.

Today was Albus Dumbledore’s 90th birthday, and she didn’t want to be late for work.

Hermione had served as Albus’s personal Healer for the past two years, making daily visits to the manor to check his vitals, administer his medications, and help him with his physical therapy. More importantly, she filled the lonely void left by his three adult daughters, now busy with careers and families of their own. Hermione spent hours reading to him from his extensive personal library, arguing fondly with him about everything from Ministry politics to cauldron cake recipes, and letting him try—and fail—to beat her at wizard’s chess. There was a special place in Hermione’s heart for Albus; he was more than her employer, more than her patient: he was her friend.

As Hermione reached the front of the manor, she wondered who she would encounter first this morning. Would it be the gardener, Pomona Sprout, normally found at this hour in the greenhouses, consulting her copy of _One Thousand Magical Herbs and Fungi_ over a cup of tea? Would it be the groundskeeper, Rubeus Hagrid, perhaps patrolling the grounds with his Neapolitan mastiff Fang, on the lookout for the garden gnomes that had been destroying the estate’s magical topiaries?

 _Ah,_ she thought, pushing through the door and catching a glimpse of someone disappearing up the stairs with a breakfast tray, _it looks like it will be Rosmerta._ Setting her bag down near an ornate coat rack in the foyer, she trailed up the stairs behind the housekeeper, a shiver running down her spine despite the warmth of the manor.

Albus’s suite of rooms was located on the third floor, at the end of a long, dark-paneled hallway lined with magical portraits. Usually warm and jovial, this morning they were silent and still, their eyes tracking Hermione as she passed. Hurrying toward the double doors that led to Albus’s sitting room, she could hear Rosmerta’s sunny voice just ahead of her.

“Having a bit of a lie-in this morning, are we?” the housekeeper called, setting the tray down briefly on a side table and throwing open the heavy velvet curtains, letting the early morning light stream into the room. “Suppose you deserve it, with how late you stayed up for your birthday party last night.” She winked at Hermione over her shoulder before picking up the tray once more. Hermione hung back, gaze fixed on the wizard’s chess set on a low side table, feeling a tingle of unease crawl across her skin.

Rosmerta strode through the doorway leading into Albus’s bedchamber, calling out a cheery, “Good mor—”

Her words died in the air, voice choked with horror.

A mere second later, a blood-curdling scream split the silence, followed closely by the sound of a crashing tray and breaking china.

Hermione forced her feet to move, heart pounding and chest tight with dread. She fell through the doorway, straight into Rosmerta, who was standing frozen, hands clutching blindly at her blouse.

Hermione caught a glimpse of Albus laid out on the coverlet of his bed—eyes open and staring, one hand twisted around his wand, deep gashes criss-crossing his torso, a gruesome halo of blood spreading from underneath his body—and felt her own blood freeze in her veins.

Grabbing Rosmerta’s arm, she dragged her back through the bedroom door, vision blurring with tears. Fumbling for her wand with shaking hands, she cast a Patronus, having to try three times before the spell would work correctly. Finally, a silvery otter burst from the end—looking so much like the forest fog, though now more nightmare than dream—and carried her cry for help away to London.

< \------------------------------- >

< One Week Later >

Hermione brushed a stray curl out of her eyes, steeling herself as she once again climbed the steps of the manor. It had been only seven days since she’d last been here, seven days since the gruesome discovery, seven days since her life abruptly changed. Everything before that felt like memories from another lifetime.

She half expected to hear Albus’s voice call out a greeting to her as she entered the house, and stumbled on the last step when she realized that she would never, in fact, hear such a thing again.

She lifted a trembling hand, knocking twice upon the intricately carved front door. It opened immediately, giving her only a moment to register a flash of blonde hair and a whiff of gardenia-scented perfume before the couture-clad arms of Albus’s youngest daughter pulled her across the threshold.

“Hermione!” Narcissa cried, pressing a fashionable kiss to each of the younger woman’s cheeks. “It’s so nice to see you. A pity you weren’t able to attend my father’s funeral; I hope you know that I did try my best to see that you were included.” She sighed prettily, patting Hermione’s shoulder. “Bellatrix insisted that it be family only.”

“It’s alright, Mrs. Malfoy,” Hermione pushed the words out past the lump in her throat. “I said goodbye in my own way.”

Narcissa hummed in agreement, taking Hermione by the hand and leading her to the large sitting room where the rest of Albus’s family was gathered. Hermione braced herself for the chaos that usually came from having all of them together in one place, taking a deep breath to steady her nerves before walking through the open doors.

The family lounged on the antique furniture scattered around the room, completely at home in the opulent luxury that often made Hermione feel out of place. She made her way over to the sideboard, busying herself with a cup of tea.

The eldest of Albus’s daughters, Bellatrix, stood against the far wall. She narrowed her eyes at Hermione, silently conveying her disapproval of _the help_ occupying the same space as Albus’s family. Hermione had always found Bellatrix intimidating, and today was no exception. With her wild black curls, harshly beautiful face, and razor-sharp tongue, she could—and regularly did—make others quake in fear of her displeasure.

Albus’s middle daughter, Andromeda, and her own daughter, Nymphadora, sat together on a chaise lounge, sunlight glinting off their auburn hair. Where Bellatrix and Narcissa’s beauty was cold, theirs was warm, welcoming, inviting. They smiled at Hermione as she poured her tea, asking how she’d been and letting her know they were both devastated that she hadn’t been able to attend the funeral. Nymphadora—or Tonks, as she preferred to be called—even went so far as to cross the room and pull Hermione into a hug, whispering into her ear that she had just as much right to be there as anyone.

Narcissa moved to sit with her husband, Lucius Malfoy, a pureblood aristocrat in every sense of the word. She leaned toward him, murmuring something in his ear, her long blonde hair a mirror image of his own. He shrugged, glancing first at Hermione, then at the doorway, and then back at Narcissa. Their son Draco stood across the room from his parents, an unreadable expression on his angular face as he stared out the window, where Pomona could be seen trimming a row of yew hedges. Draco’s gray eyes met Hermione’s briefly before he looked away, adjusting the rolled sleeves of his shirt and studying the buttons of his emerald green waistcoat. Hermione felt her heart clench painfully at the sight of him standing there, so alone. Of all the family members, Draco and Albus had been especially close.

Motion in the doorway drew Hermione’s attention away from Draco’s brooding. Two Aurors stood there: a young man and woman, both with dark hair, the woman’s cut into a chic bob and the man’s a bit of a disheveled mess. The man wore dark-framed glasses and a smart suit and tie; the woman a fashionable, slim-cut pantsuit.

“Hello, everyone,” the man said, lifting his hand in greeting. “I am Harry Potter, and this is my partner, Pansy Parkinson. We are Aurors with the DMLE.” He paused, clearing his throat. “You must be wondering why you’ve all been called here today.”

Bellatrix pushed away from the wall with a humorless laugh, stalking toward the pair. “You don’t say,” she drawled. “My father is dead and buried, and our family is trying to heal. Do we really need to re-hash the details of his suicide?”

Harry nodded sympathetically, opening his mouth to agree, but Pansy was quicker.

“You are here because there is an open investigation into the death of Albus Dumbledore. The Department of Magical Law Enforcement has not closed his case file as of yet, so we would greatly _appreciate,_ ” she said, voice dripping with condescension, “your cooperation.”

Bellatrix huffed indignantly, glaring at the young Auror. Pansy glared right back, earning Hermione's respect. It took some serious bollocks to go toe-to-toe with Bellatrix.

“Erm yes,” Harry stammered nervously, proving Hermione’s point. “Thank you all in advance for your cooperation. We’ll try to finish our questioning as quickly as possible so you can all be on your way.”

“Indeed,” added Pansy. “Narcissa Malfoy? Come with us, please.”

< \------------------------------- >

Harry led the way to the manor’s library, where he had set up an impromptu interview space by pushing a pair of wingback chairs in front of an antique writing desk. Narcissa moved behind the desk, smoothing the classic lines of her black sheath dress before taking her seat. Harry noticed her eyes lingering on the leather-bound notebooks, phoenix-feather quills, and loose sheafs of parchment that littered the desk’s surface, a sad smile briefly crossing her face.

Pansy’s no-nonsense voice pulled Narcissa’s attention back to the task at hand. “Mrs. Malfoy, we’d like to go over the night of your father’s birthday party.”

She inclined her head in a regal nod. “Of course.”

“When did you arrive?” Harry asked, pulling a small notebook out of his suit jacket. He flipped it open, setting it on a nearby end table. With a wave of his wand, a thin Quick Quotes quill began taking notes as Narcissa spoke.

“Draco and I arrived around 7 o’clock. Lucius came earlier to help set up for the party.”

Pansy frowned, shooting him a very _Pansy_ look. The two of them often employed this kind of wordless communication, an unintended but serendipitous by-product of having spent nearly every day for the past five years working cases together. He returned her look with an arch of his brow before resuming his line of questioning. “Were any non-family members here when you arrived at the party? Members of your father’s staff, perhaps?”

Narcissa paused, appearing to reflect carefully on the night in question before answering. “Hermione was already here. Rosmerta was, as well; I heard her barking orders at Father’s house elves in the kitchens. I remember seeing a light on in Hagrid’s cottage as we arrived, so I assume he was on the property, although he didn’t attend the party. Pomona wasn’t invited,” she finished with a shrug. Harry flicked his wand again, directing his quill to make a note that he and Pansy would need to speak with Hagrid and Rosmerta about the night in question.

Pansy leaned forward as he leaned back, their bodies unconsciously mirroring the shift in their questioning. “And you stayed here that night? You and your husband and your son?”

Narcissa shifted in her chair. “Lucius and I did. Draco...had to leave a bit early.”

A discordant piano note sounded from the back of the room.

Harry grimaced, his teeth audibly grinding together at the interruption. _Arsehole,_ he thought at the lanky man reclining near the piano. _You insert yourself into my investigation and then just lurk in the shadows and play the piano?_ He paused a moment longer, waiting to see if the man would speak, but all he did was sit back further in his chair, propping one slim ankle atop his opposite knee.

Shoving down his frustration, Harry pushed on, “About what time did your son leave, Mrs. Malfoy?”

“Oh, maybe around 9? 9:30?” Narcissa replied, lifting one shoulder in an elegant shrug.

“Why?” Pansy asked bluntly. She leaned back in her own chair, crossing one long leg over the other and folding her perfectly-manicured hands in her lap, still as a snake waiting to strike its prey.

A light blush crept up Narcissa’s throat, voice a bit less friendly as she answered the question. “I honestly couldn’t say. He had asked his grandfather for a word alone that night. The next thing I knew, he was leaving, visibly upset. But that’s Draco,” she added, sweeping her hair over her shoulder with one delicate hand. “He is quite sensitive.”

Another piano note came from the back of the room.

“So you have no idea what was discussed between the two of them?” Harry asked again.

“Not the faintest.”

“May we talk about your business, Mrs. Malfoy?” the man at the back of the room inquired, still hidden in the shadows.

Narcissa leaned forward, narrowing her eyes at him. “Forgive me for being rude, but who exactly are _you?_ ”

The man unfolded his body from the chair, standing and taking three long-legged strides over to stand between Harry and Pansy. Up close, Harry could begrudgingly appreciate his exquisitely tailored charcoal suit, his shiny black dragonhide boots, his thick chestnut hair, and his rather annoyingly handsome face.

“Theo Nott, private investigator,” the man said, offering Narcissa his hand. She took it gingerly, as if he were contagious. Harry chortled under his breath.

Pansy’s cool voice cut into his enjoyment. “Mr. Nott is not employed by the Department of Magical Law Enforcement, nor by the Ministry of Magic. He is serving as a consultant on this case.”

“Who hired you, Mr. Nott?” Narcissa asked.

Theo moved to inspect a small collection of trinkets that lined one of the many bookshelves in the room. “Please, call me Theo. And alas, I cannot say,” he finally responded. “Now—your company, Mrs. Malfoy?” he asked again, turning toward her with a polite smile.

She released a long-suffering sigh. “I own my own fashion label. You may have heard of it— _Narcissa?_ I see Auror Parkinson is a fan,” she said, gesturing at Pansy’s pantsuit.

Theo nodded once in confirmation. He stood behind Harry’s chair, leaning against the back in a way that Harry found incandescently irritating. “And you started that company yourself, correct?”

Narcissa nodded, chin held high, the better to look down her nose at him. “I built it from the ground up.”

“Your father must have been very proud of you. Were the two of you close?”

“Yes,” she replied. “I was only eleven when he adopted my sisters and me. I’m sure you know about my real parents—” she broke off, arching a brow at the three investigators. They nodded somberly.

The fate of Cygnus and Druella Black was well-known in the wizarding world. They had been killed in a horrific house fire when their daughters were young, and Albus Dumbledore—a childhood friend of Druella’s—had taken the girls in, as they had had no living relatives and would have otherwise been surrendered to the Ministry’s abysmal foster care system.

“He was a good father,” she continued, “really the only father I’ve ever known.” She paused, blinking back tears. “He bought this house for us; used the pseudonym Alexander Black to publish his muggle books in honor of our last name. He is—was—a great man. The only thing I’ve ever wanted was to make him proud.”

“I’m sure you did,” Harry offered kindly. “Sure you all did, actually, what with your sister Bellatrix’s success at Phoenix Publishing—”

“Oh yes, Bellatrix has done quite well with what my father handed to her,” Narcissa snapped, icy blue eyes sparking in anger. “And what exactly does all this have to do with my father’s suicide?” she added, voice cold.

“Ah well, you see,” Theo replied, placing both hands on the desk and leaning forward until he was mere inches from Narcissa’s face. “Your father didn’t commit suicide. He was murdered.”

< \------------------------------- >

“A word, Nott?” Harry gritted out once Pansy had escorted a crying Narcissa from the library.

“Yes, Pott, how may I help you?” Theo replied with a grin, dropping into Pansy’s vacant chair.

Harry sputtered. “My name is Potter. Harry Potter.”

“And your partner’s name is Parkinson. Pansy Parkinson. I’m aware. I just simply do not have enough time to pronounce the final syllable of your last name, let alone your entire given name. Which is why I will refer to you as Pott, and Auror Parkinson as Pans.” He paused, clapping his hands together in glee. “Pott and Pan! Potts and Pans? PanPot? NottPanPott? Nott Potts and Pans?”

“Are you having a stroke?” Harry asked, clenching his fists against the arms of his chair.

“If only,” Theo said dreamily. “What was the word you needed?”

What that word was, Harry did not get a chance to say, because just then Pansy returned, followed by Andromeda Tonks.

Andromeda— _call me Andi, please_ —had also arrived at the party before everyone else. She had overheard yelling from this very room before Draco left— _’left’ isn’t quite the right word, he was rather angry and stomping about like a berserk mountain troll_ —but didn’t know what the argument had been about.

“And what do you do for a living, Mrs. Tonks—ah, apologies—Andi?” Theo asked, deploying a disgustingly charming smile that had Andromeda-call-me-Andi eating out of his hand.

“Well I take after my father, in a way,” she said, smiling flirtatiously at Theo. “You see, I publish a monthly newsletter called DROM. It’s all about holistic healing, organic herbology, and all-natural potions to help witches and wizards lead healthier lives. Health and wellness is the essence of DROM.”

“Indeed,” drawled Pansy, barely suppressing an eye roll. Harry shot her a crooked smile.

Andi ignored her, continuing to address Theo. “I know you,” she said, waggling a finger in his direction. “Wasn’t there an article about you in _Witch Weekly_ last month? Naming you one of Britain’s most eligible bachelors? You solved that case of the missing Quidditch player in Norway!”

Theo smiled smugly at Harry before inclining his head toward Andi. _Wanker,_ Harry thought.

This time Pansy did roll her eyes, moving to stand in front of Theo and attempting to return Andi’s attention to the subject at hand. “How would you describe your relationship with your father?”

Andi’s smile faded, an unreadable expression settling over her face. “Good,” she said quietly. “He was a good man.” She fell silent for another moment, then visibly shook herself. “After my husband passed twenty years ago, he did so much for my daughter and me. He paid off my husband’s considerable debts, gave me money for all of Nymphie’s schooling...” she trailed off, a single tear rolling down her cheek.

Theo watched her for several long moments before speaking again. “Why did you arrive early to the party, Andi?”

She wiped at her eyes, sniffling. “There had been an issue with the latest tuition payment for Nymphie. We got it all cleared up before the party.”

“And you and your daughter stayed here at the manor that night?” Harry asked, attempting to regain control of the interview.

She nodded. “Nymphie left for a bit to visit some university friends who live nearby. But she returned around midnight, after most of the family had gone to bed.”

Pansy moved closer to Andi, kneeling down next to the older woman. “Mrs. Tonks...can you think of anyone who wished your father ill?” she asked.

This question was met with silence. Silence that stretched for so long that Pansy opened her mouth to repeat her question before Andi finally answered.

“No,” she said, voice thick with emotion. “No one.”

< \------------------------------- >

“It’s really no secret that Bellatrix and Albus were not on good terms,” Lucius Malfoy said with a toss of his platinum mane. “She wanted to sell the rights to his muggle novels to a movie studio—whatever _that_ is—and he was vehemently opposed to the idea. They argued about it constantly, especially after Bella would get a few firewhiskeys in her. It was rather tiresome.”

Harry opened his mouth, ready to ask if the two had argued the night of the party.

“Did they argue the night of the party?” Theo cut in, earning a glare from Harry that went unnoticed. His back was to Lucius and the others, busy inspecting a framed photograph of Albus and his daughters.

Lucius scoffed. “Of course they did. As a matter of fact,” he leaned forward, as though he were about to let them in on a particularly juicy bit of gossip, “I believe that Albus went so far as to sack Bellatrix that night. It was an incredibly uncomfortable way to end a party.”

Harry’s Quick Quotes quill scratched furiously, providing the only sound in the room for a moment before anyone spoke. “Have Bellatrix and Albus always had a contentious relationship?” he asked.

Another scoff. “Again, that is common knowledge. Bellatrix was seventeen when her parents died. Seventeen when she was adopted by an eccentric old wizard with a fondness for muggles—a fondness that her real father had _not_ shared.” His words oozed venom, making it rather apparent that Lucius did not share this particular fondness either.

“And yet he still allowed her to run his company?” Pansy arched a brow. Harry recognized the skepticism written across her delicate features.

“Bellatrix is...troubled,” Lucius said after a moment. “Mentally unwell, if you will. If Albus hadn’t given her a job at Phoenix Publishing...I do believe she would have ended up in a very different place. Literally and figuratively,” he added with an arch of one pale brow.

Theo turned, reaching in his pocket to dig out a pair of glasses, which he polished as he spoke. “Your wife told us that you came early to the party to help set things up. Is party planning a particular passion of yours, or did you—oh, I don’t know—come to have a word with Albus before the others arrived?”

The smug, patronizing look that had masked Lucius’ face since the start of the interview wavered. “I suppose I may have spoken to Albus during that time.”

Theo placed the glasses on his nose and peered at Lucius through them. Somehow this simple action annoyed Harry more than anything Theo had done thus far. _He probably doesn’t even need them to see, the prat,_ he thought irritably.

“And what did you speak about?” Theo asked Lucius.

“I can’t recall.”

“Funny,” Theo moved to lean once more on the back of Harry’s chair. Harry did his best not to bristle at the sound of Theo’s deep voice just above his head. “I paid a visit to the house elves this morning, and they told me they heard two male voices shouting at each other from the master’s study that day. That they specifically heard Master Albus yell the words, ‘You tell her, or I shall!’”

Lucius gulped audibly. “Ah, yes, how silly of me. I had forgotten that conversation.”

Theo smiled indulgently at the older man. “So you remember it now? And can tell us what Albus was talking about?”

“Indeed,” Lucius rubbed his fingers over his jaw. “It was...about Bellatrix. Albus wanted me to tell Narcissa that he was thinking of sacking Bellatrix. Narcissa is quite protective of her sisters, so he wanted her to have a bit of warning. That’s all.”

< \------------------------------- >

“ _He said what?_ ” Bellatrix seethed, her petite frame fairly vibrating with fury as she perched on the edge of her chair. “That fucking entitled prat doesn’t know what he’s talking about. He’s trying to deflect attention away from the fact that he is _having an affair_ and my father knew about it.”

“Lucius is cheating on Narcissa?” Theo repeated. Harry’s quill picked up speed. Pansy’s brows arched in surprise.

“Of course he is. Has been for at least a year. And I’m sure Albus was planning to tell Narcissa.”

“But would Lucius care if Narcissa found out? Affairs are not that uncommon among the landed gentry, after all,” Pansy said.

Bellatrix smiled. The expression looked wrong somehow; unnatural. “My dear girl,” she replied, and now it was Pansy’s turn to bristle. “Don’t you know that the Malfoy fortune is long gone? Lucius may have been wealthy when Narcissa married him, but a series of bad investments and a bit of a goblin gambling problem changed all that. If she leaves him, he’ll have _nothing._ ”

Harry and Pansy exchanged another knowing glance.

Theo had moved to the far wall, inspecting a large art installation that seemed, upon first glance, to be a collection of completely random objects arranged in a large circle. “This display,” he began, brushing his fingers lightly over each item as he referenced it. “It’s quite something, isn’t it? All these wands, knives, revolvers, potion bottles, flowers...what is the significance?”

Bellatrix crossed her arms in front of her body. “Have you never read my father’s books? They’re the murder weapons from each of Alexander Black’s novels.”

Theo smiled over his shoulder at Bellatrix, giving her the full intensity of his charm. Judging by her withering glare, Harry gathered that she was not at all impressed. He silently rejoiced that he wasn’t the only one who found the charismatic investigator objectionable—even if he was having a hard time looking away from the spectacle that was Theo Nott.

“Alas, I’ve never read them, but you’ve piqued my interest.” Theo’s long fingers returned to the wand nearest his hand. It was long and twisted—made of yew, if Harry’s preliminary knowledge of wands was anything to go by. Theo plucked it from its display and twirled it once. “Albus wrote novels for muggles,” he said, quirking a brow in Bellatrix’s direction, “but a wand is one of the murder weapons?”

“Yes,” Bellatrix replied, rolling her eyes. “Muggles are positively obsessed with witchcraft—or rather, what they think they know about witchcraft. Father included it in a few of his novels.”

Harry ran a hand through his hair, causing it to stand even further on end. “Can you tell us more about your work at Phoenix Publishing House?”

“I run it,” Bellatrix said simply. “My father writes— _wrote_ —the books, and I published and marketed them. Together, we sold over 100 million copies of his novels. They’ve been translated into thirty different muggle languages, as well as Mermish and Gobbledegook. Big fans, the goblins,” she added.

“And you were satisfied with the direction of the company?” Harry asked, fishing for clues.

She scoffed. “The ‘direction’ of the company was stagnant. My father and I often argued about it. I wanted to expand, innovate...he did not.”

“Did you argue at his birthday party?”

“That _was_ our preferred form of communication,” Bellatrix answered with a toss of her hair. “But to answer your question, we argued no more than usual that night. It was quite a routine interaction, all things considered.”

< \------------------------------- >

Nymphadora’s interview was short and relatively uneventful. She sang the praises of her grandfather’s generosity and raised her own suspicions about her cousin Draco’s behavior on the night of the party.

As Theo showed her out of the library, escorting her down the long hallway to the Floo, Harry and Pansy huddled together on a richly brocaded settee to look over Harry’s notes.

“Are we in agreement that this family is fucked up?” Harry asked his partner, his voice hushed.

Pansy shrugged, tucking her hair behind her ear. “Aren’t all families?”

“Wouldn’t know,” he replied, voice light despite the twinge of sorrow his words provoked. The Blacks weren’t the only wizarding family with a tragic past, after all.

Pansy had a well-deserved reputation for being harsh. Blunt. Some may even go so far as to call her cruel. But working with Harry for so long meant that he knew the true Pansy; got a front-row seat to her kinder, softer, more nurturing side. It was on display now as she placed a gentle hand on his back, whispering a soft, “Don’t.”

Theo re-entered the room with a flourish a moment later, eyeing the two of them as he sauntered over. He dropped onto the settee between them, wiggling his slim hips until he had successfully pushed them both over enough to make space for him to sit comfortably.

“So,” he said. “I have a confession to make.”

“You’re an idiot?” Pansy offered.

Theo threw his head back and laughed. Harry’s eyes were drawn to the line of his throat, the smooth skin that could be seen peeking out above the unbuttoned collar of his shirt. He had been wrong earlier, Harry decided. That unbuttoned top button was the most annoying thing about Theo Nott.

Theo’s laughter trailed off, his warm hazel eyes meeting Harry’s. “No,” he said, holding Harry’s gaze. “My confession is about our next interview subject. Draco Malfoy,” he clarified, turning to Pansy.

“You see, he and I know each other. Were in many of the same classes at Hogwarts. However, we moved in very different social circles. Would you believe that I was a shy loner in my younger years?” he asked Harry, who merely blinked in response. No, he literally could not believe that.

With a swish of his wand, Theo sent a patronus—a miniature, trotting hippopotamus—to the sitting room to fetch the man in question. Harry arched a brow at the form Theo’s patronus had taken, causing Theo to roll his eyes dramatically.

“Not you too,” he groaned, placing a hand on Harry’s shoulder. “I really get tired of educating others on the finer points of hippopotami,” he continued, not sounding the least bit tired. “Did you know that hippos are one of the most dangerous animals in the known world? They are large, aggressive, and territorial; responsible for killing more than five hundred people every year. That’s more than sharks,” he added with a grin, as if he were personally responsible for that statistic. “Plus, they love water and are very social.”

“They’re also quite loud and disgusting,” Pansy added, voice dripping acid. Theo shot two finger guns at her.

“Anyway, back to my knowledge of Mr. Malfoy: our non-relationship shouldn’t interfere with the interview at all.”

< \------------------------------- >

“That is quite literally the stupidest thing you have ever said,” Draco drawled at Theo thirty minutes later, after confirming that yes, he had left his grandfather’s birthday party early and yes, they had argued and yes, his aunts were barking mad and his father was an arse and his mother was quite lovely, thank you.

“So you’re not involved with anything that may have required you to, oh, I don’t know—ask your grandfather for a large sum of money? Which perhaps led to an explosive argument on the night of his birthday soirée?” Theo asked, leaning a hip on the desk where Draco sat.

Draco scowled, moving away from him before shaking his head.

Theo stared at him.

Draco glared back.

Harry’s quill paused its scratching, his eyes moving quickly back and forth between the two men. The tension was palpable, but still rather enjoyable.

Pansy heaved a long-suffering sigh, leaning around Theo to question Draco further. “Then what did you need to speak to your grandfather about? And why did you storm out after your private meeting?”

He opened his mouth. Closed it. Cleared his throat. Looked at the ceiling, as if the correct answer was written there. “Well. You see...it’s just that. Private.”

“We can be discreet,” Theo responded with a wink.

Draco’s eyes narrowed, chin lifting haughtily. “Be that as it may, I have no intention of telling you.”

“Pity,” Harry responded cheerfully. “I’m afraid you’ll have to come back to the Ministry with us, then. We’ll have some paperwork for you to complete before we transfer you to Azkaban, where you will remain until we finish our investigation.”

“What?!” Draco shouted, face flushed a dull red at the thought of spending one second in the infamous wizarding prison. “I will do no such thing!”

“Then you’ll need to answer Mr. Nott’s question.”

Draco glared at them all for a moment before letting his shoulders slump in defeat. “Fine,” he muttered, pressing the fingers of one hand against his closed eyelids. “I spoke to my grandfather about giving me my inheritance early. I wanted to open my own potion shop in Diagon Alley, and my father has pissed away all our family’s money. Besides, I wanted to do it on my own; with my own money that I knew my grandfather had set aside for me.”

Harry rolled his eyes, mumbling, “That’s not really doing it on your own, is it?” under his breath. He fell silent when Pansy stomped on his foot—hard—with the point of one heel.

“I’m guessing that conversation didn’t go the way you wanted it to,” she said, ignoring Harry’s whimpers of pain.

Draco shook his head, the picture of affronted entitlement. “He told me no. Said he didn’t want to make the same mistakes with me that he had with his daughters. Even went so far as to tell me he had been thinking of changing his will altogether; leaving all his money to charity and St. Mungo’s.”

“And that made you angry?”

“Well yes, at first. But I cooled off after a few hours. And then the next day—when I got the news that he was dead—” Draco broke off as his voice cracked. “I was devastated.”

“Do you have any ideas as to who might have wanted your grandfather dead?” Theo asked, now fully reclining on Albus’s desk, body angled toward Draco and chin propped in one hand.

Draco rubbed a hand along his sharp jaw, sighing deeply before answering. “Look. This family is five thousand degrees of fucked up, but I would honestly be shocked if any of us would go so far as to commit murder.”

“And those _not_ in your family? Someone on your grandfather’s staff, perhaps?”

“Hagrid is harmless, and would do anything for my grandfather,” Draco said, leaning against the back of the desk chair, deflated. “Pomona is strange, but quite good at her job. Has been employed by the family for years. Rosmerta has always been a great favorite of my grandfather’s, mostly due to their shared love of bawdy jokes and crossword puzzles. And Granger—” he broke off, clearing his throat.

“Yes?” Theo prompted. Draco was silent for a long time, seeming to struggle with what to say about the woman in question.

“Well, I find her rather irritating, to be quite honest with you,” he finally replied. “She is an insufferable swot, and while yes, she’s obviously quite intelligent—she _is_ training to be a Healer, after all—and can even be funny _at times,_ she mostly just looks down her nose at me—er, us.” He stood, beginning to pace behind the desk, as though he needed to move his body in order to properly express his thoughts.

“She thinks she’s better than us,” he repeated, throwing his hands in the air in frustration. “But _I_ for one have never been arrested.”

“Wait. Back up,” Theo sat up straight. “She’s been arrested?”

“Yes,” Pansy responded, already waving her hand at Draco to continue. “She and a few other witches protested for werewolf equality, and were arrested after they chained themselves to a statue at the Ministry of Magic. She paid a fine and was released.”

Draco nodded emphatically, blonde hair falling forward into his eyes. “But the way my grandfather talked about her, you’d think she was the second coming of Merlin. ‘Brightest witch of her age’ he called her. As if I wasn’t the top student in my class every year at Hogwarts.”

“Tied for top student, anyway,” Theo corrected with a cat-like smile. Draco scowled at him, but didn’t argue his point.

“Also,” he said, continuing his earlier rant about Miss Granger, “I suppose she _could_ be considered rather attractive, but she has terribly bad habits. I’m quite sure her hair has its own gravitational pull, she wears horrible clothes, and the absolute _worst_ thing about her—” he paused, shuddering—“is that she cannot lie.”

“That’s a bad thing?” asked Harry, confused.

“Not in and of itself,” Draco responded, coming around to stand in front of the desk. “But what she does if she tells a lie is positively revolting. You see, she becomes physically ill if she is untruthful.” He paused, waiting for their reactions.

They stared blankly back at him.

“She vomits,” he clarified, and then smirked at the disgusted looks on their faces.

“Be all that as it may, do you have any reason to believe that Miss Granger would have harmed your grandfather?” Pansy asked.

Draco was silent again for awhile. “No I do not,” he finally admitted. “But if I were you, I would ask her.”

< \------------------------------- >

Harry, Pansy, and Theo made their way out the front door of the manor, heading down the graveled path to stretch their legs after a long morning of interviews. The air was damp and had a bite to it, their breath misting warmly in front of them as they chatted.

“This seems to be an open and shut case of suicide,” Harry offered after they had walked in silence for several minutes, frowning as Theo squawked loudly in disapproval.

“Pott!” he cried, throwing his hands into the air, “use the brain that has to exist under that glorious mop of hair. Albus Dumbledore used a Sectumsempra curse on himself. That is not a commonly-used curse for suicide. Too messy and painful.”

“True,” Pansy agreed, adjusting her cashmere scarf to better ward off the chill. “But look around you, Theo.” She gestured to the enormous hippogriff statues guarding the gates, the large dragon fountain on the front lawn that spewed water instead of fire, the topiaries that had been shaped into centaurs, the otherworldly woods surrounding the estate. “The man was dramatic. Who says he wouldn’t have wanted to go out with a particularly unique bang?”

“Even so, Pans,” Theo replied, “nothing about his death makes sense. I think it’s time we talk to Hermione Granger.”

< \------------------------------- >

Hermione’s time spent waiting had gone by torturously slow. One by one she watched the others leave to be questioned, growing increasingly anxious about what they would ask her when it was her turn.

Finally, after what felt like days rather than mere hours, Harry Potter returned for her.

“If you’ll come with me please, Miss Granger?” he said pleasantly.

Hermione followed him, surprised when he led her out the back door to Albus’s covered terrace.

Another man she didn’t know was waiting for them, sitting on a wrought iron bench with his feet propped on the rim of one of Albus’s many potted plants. He stood as they approached, grasping her hand in a firm handshake.

“Theo Nott, private investigator,” he said, hazel eyes sparkling in his angular face.

“Hermione Granger,” she replied, taking a seat.

“And this is Harry Potter and Pansy Parkinson,” Theo added as an afterthought, gesturing dismissively at the Aurors.

“So, Miss Granger,” Harry began, charming his quill to begin its faithful note-taking once more. “How long have you been employed by Albus Dumbledore?”

“Two years,” Hermione answered. “I had just started my mastery program at St. Mungo’s when he had a mild heart attack three years ago. He went through several Healers because, as you may have heard, he was quite...prickly.” She paused, laughing sadly. “I was the only one who wouldn’t put up with his nonsense, so he badgered me until I agreed to serve as his private Healer.”

“And he paid you well?” Theo chimed in. “He was a very wealthy man, after all.”

“Yes he did. And yes he was.”

Theo steepled his fingers together in front of his body, gazing at Hermione. She shifted uncomfortably under his scrutiny. When he spoke again, his voice was kind. “But you weren’t just his employee, were you Miss Granger? You were also his friend.”

She nodded, eyes filling and throat tightening. “Yes,” she managed. “I loved him as well as I loved my own grandfather.”

Theo hummed, a sympathetic noise. “And he confided in you, is that true?”

She nodded again.

“Told you things about his family, his business, his writing?”

Another nod.

“And Miss Granger—forgive me if this is too personal, but I have to know—is it true that you have a rare medical condition? One that does not allow you to lie?”

Hermione felt her heart rate increase, her stomach drop, her hair stand on end. “That is true.”

“What happens if you tell a lie?”

She swallowed, feeling sick to her stomach at the mere thought. “I throw up.”

Theo leaned forward in anticipation, Harry unconsciously mimicking his pose. “So if I were to ask you a question right now, and you lied when answering, you’d become sick and vomit?”

She nodded miserably.

“I see, Miss Granger,” Theo said, a positively wicked smile spreading across his face. “So. Let’s talk about the Black Family.”


	2. The Family

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hermione is finally interviewed by the investigators. Secrets and truths are revealed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to all who read and commented on Chapter 1! Please remember that this is a very, VERY AU, so check your canon expectations at the door. I hope you enjoy Chapter 2!

“So. Let’s talk about the Black Family.”

Hermione swallowed nervously. “The Black family? I don’t think I can—” 

“Of course you can,” Theo interrupted. He stood, crossing the short distance between them to drop his wiry frame onto the bench beside her. Leaning into her space, he smiled again. 

That smile made her nervous. Her stomach gurgled. 

“Now, Hermione—may I call you Hermione?”

She nodded.

“Fantastic,” he said, clapping his hands together. “Let’s start with someone Black-adjacent: Lucius Malfoy. Is he having an affair?”

“Lucius?” Hermione repeated numbly, feeling like her tongue was too large for her mouth. “Having an affair?”

_It was a warm day in late October, and she and Albus were sitting on this very terrace, sipping chilled pumpkin juice and enjoying a tray of freshly-baked biscuits. She was reading a dog-eared copy of To Kill a Mockingbird—the better to annoy Albus with, as she refused to read any mystery novels, up to and including his own—and he was flipping through a portfolio of papers._

_He let out a heavy sigh._

_“What did that wretched grandson of yours do now?” she teased._

_“Not Draco this time,” he replied, tossing one of the papers from his stack onto the table in front of her. It was a photograph._

_A photograph of Lucius Malfoy._

_A photograph of Lucius Malfoy snogging a much younger, raven-haired witch._

_Hermione made a face. “Gross.”_

_“Indeed,” Albus replied. “The rest are quite ‘gross’ as well, but they’re decidedly more explicit, so I will spare you the trauma of seeing them.” He looked at one such photo, rotating it ninety degrees before grimacing. “I didn’t know the human body could actually bend like that.”_

_She laughed softly, amused in spite of herself. “Will you tell Narcissa?”_

_“I’ll speak to Lucius first,” he replied. “But if he refuses to tell her, then he’ll leave me no choice.”_

Hermione cleared her throat before speaking. Her voice was quiet, hesitant. “No?”

Theo held her gaze, his face betraying no emotion as her stomach rumbled audibly. She breathed deeply, in and out through her nose, trying to will her body into compliance.

It was no use. She felt the contents of her stomach sloshing, the bile in the back of her throat rising, and was able to _just_ make it to the terrace railing before vomiting into the hydrangea bushes.

Pansy’s voice came from behind her, sounding disgusted. “I guess that answers _that_ question.”

“Be that as it may,” Harry’s voice said, closer to Hermione than the other investigators, “covering up an affair is a weak motive for murder.”

“Not if it threatened Lucius’s Gringotts vault, Pott,” Theo’s smug voice replied. “If Narcissa left him, he’d have nothing. And if he owed money to the goblins—money he couldn’t pay without Narcissa’s help—well, I find that self-preservation is often a powerful motive, indeed.” 

Theo didn’t need to elaborate on what would happen to someone who broke a deal with a goblin—there had been plenty of articles in the Daily Prophet detailing how a wizard was found facedown in the Thames, a goblin blade sticking out of his back.

A handkerchief appeared next to Hermione’s cheek, and she turned to find the kind, bespectacled eyes of Harry Potter looking back at her. She accepted his offering, wiping her mouth and casting a quick Scourgify before handing it back to him.

“Erm, you can keep it,” he said, offering her a sympathetic smile. She nodded her thanks, truly grateful that at least one of the investigators seemed to have a trace of decency.

Turning, she headed for the door to the house, but Theo quickly intercepted, taking advantage of his rather long legs to slide in front of her, blocking her path.

“Just a few more questions, Hermione,” he said, gesturing for her to sit.

She frowned at him. “I’d like to go rinse my mouth out, if it’s all the same to you.”

A glass appeared in his hand, filling immediately with cool, fresh water. He handed it to her with an exaggerated bow, then took her elbow and gently led her back to the bench. 

“Now,” he said, settling himself beside her once more. “Let’s move on to Andromeda.”

Hermione whimpered. 

Harry, perhaps taking pity on her, cut in. “Really, Nott? If Albus was supporting her and Tonks, why would she want him dead? That doesn’t make any sense.”

“Too right you are, Pott,” Theo said with a wink. “However, if that support was threatened…” he turned to Hermione, who shrank back on the bench, as if she could physically avoid his question.

“Hermione,” he said, and his posture reminded her of a lion stalking its prey. “Was Albus planning on cutting off Andromeda and Tonks?”

_They were in the library. Hermione was flipping idly through a medical journal, trying to find an explanation for one of her patient’s increasingly frequent headaches and bouts of dizziness. Albus was resting in one of the library’s many overstuffed reading chairs, feet propped on an ottoman and a warm blanket tucked around his legs._

_“Oh, Andi,” he said softly, pulling Hermione’s attention away from her reading._

_She crossed the room to him. “What’s wrong?”_

_In answer, he handed her a sheet of parchment, the name of his solicitor across the top. The rest of the parchment was a mysterious jumble of numbers and figures which Hermione had no context for._

_“What is this?” she asked, handing it back to him._

_“Confirmation of my fears,” he answered sadly. “I have always paid Nymphadora’s tuition directly to her schools. So imagine my surprise when I found out that my accountant has also been including a lump sum for tuition payments in Andromeda’s yearly allowance from my estate. For the past ten years.”_

_Hermione’s eyes widened in shock. The stolen sum was astronomical; more galleons than she would likely see in her lifetime._

Back in the present, Hermione gagged. 

“Don’t answer that question, Miss Granger,” Harry said, shooting Theo a dirty look. “Cutting off an allowance is another weak motive for murder, Nott. That’s all we have—a lot of weak motives and no clear evidence to support that Albus Dumbledore’s death was anything other than what it appears to be: suicide.”

“And yet,” Theo replied, idly stroking his jaw with one long-fingered hand.

The other three stared at him, waiting for him to finish his thought. “And yet?” Pansy finally prompted.

He shrugged. “It seems like Albus was tying up loose ends on the day of his party. Threatening Lucius, cutting off Andromeda, firing Bellatrix—” he looked at Hermione for confirmation, and she nodded weakly—“letting Draco know he was likely changing his will.”

“I really don’t think I should be here for this discussion,” Hermione croaked miserably. 

“I agree,” Pansy said, standing and leading Hermione to the door. “But don’t leave yet, Miss Granger. We’re not finished.”

< \------------------------------- >

Pansy rounded on Theo, fairly spitting with fury. “Just what kind of game are you playing? I don’t know how _private investigators_ usually interrogate suspects, but we Aurors don’t go about divulging important details to just anyone!”

“So you consider Hermione Granger a suspect?” Theo asked, seeming completely unfazed by Pansy’s righteous anger, which Harry knew from personal experience usually led to a particularly nasty stinging hex. 

“I don’t know yet,” she hissed. “But I’d ask that you _not_ compromise the investigation, _Nott._ ”

Theo shivered in what Harry could only describe as pleasure at her play on words.

“I still don’t think anything we’ve heard is a strong enough motive for murder,” Harry repeated once more.

“You’re delightfully dull, do you know that, Potter?” Theo said, tweaking Harry’s nose. “Of course, you’re right. But a lack of clear motives doesn’t answer a very important question—why am I here?”

“Been asking myself that all day,” Harry muttered, rubbing the place on his nose where Theo’s fingers had just been.

“Why _are_ you here?” Pansy sneered. “Who hired you?”

Theo beckoned to them, waiting until they moved closer before admitting in a whisper: “I have no bloody idea.”

“What?!” Harry’s outburst was immediately silenced by Theo’s hand clamping down on his mouth. 

“Hush, Pott, and I’ll tell you everything.” Theo’s face was so close to Harry’s own that Harry could count every freckle dusted across Theo’s prominent cheekbones. He blinked, trying his best to focus on Theo’s words. 

“Yesterday, I was enjoying a spot of tea and a lovely bit of Indian takeaway in my flat when a package arrived by owl. Inside was a clipping from the Daily Prophet about Albus’s death.” Theo trailed off, seeming to lose his train of thought as he stared at something in the general location of Harry’s hairline. 

“And?” Pansy drawled, eyes narrowing.

Theo blinked. “And a pile of galleons so big it would make you blush,” he murmured to Harry, finally removing his hand from Harry’s lips. His skin tingled at the loss. “This tells me,” Theo continued, spinning in place to begin pacing along the edge of the terrace, “that someone doesn’t believe he committed suicide. Someone suspects foul play. And _someone_ wants us to find out the truth.”

The two Aurors stared back at him, Harry’s mouth now hanging open in dumbfounded surprise.

“Now,” Theo said, clapping his hands. “Let’s go over everyone’s whereabouts at the time of Albus’ death.”

Harry reached into his pocket, removing the notebook containing all his notes from the morning’s interviews. “The party ended around 11:00, when Hermione took Albus upstairs for his nightly medication. Narcissa and Lucius had already gone to bed, and Draco had left approximately two hours earlier.”

Theo nodded, removing his jacket as he paced along the edge of the terrace. The pull of fabric around Theo’s biceps momentarily distracted Harry— _you wouldn’t think he had any muscles at all, tall and thin as he is_ —but he quickly re-focused when Pansy cleared her throat loudly.

“Right,” he said, searching his notes to find where he had left off. “Around 11:15, Andromeda heard a loud noise above her head. Knowing that her father’s room was directly above hers, she went upstairs to check on him, but he assured her that he had merely knocked over the wizard’s chess board in his sitting room. Andromeda saw Hermione putting away her medical supplies, so she said goodnight to her father and went back to bed.”

Pansy picked up the thread of the story, not needing to refer to any notes to remember the details of the night. Her excellent memory was one of the reasons she had been top of her class at the Auror Academy, much to Harry’s everlasting frustration. Quick quotes quills weren’t cheap, after all.

“Hermione was seen leaving at 11:30, when she said goodbye to Bellatrix, who was having a smoke on the front porch. Approximately fifteen minutes after that, Bellatrix saw her father come downstairs for a midnight snack. She told him to go back to bed, and he did. That was the last time anyone saw Albus alive.”

“And then Tonks returned around midnight, according to her mother,” Harry added. “Around 3:00 in the morning Tonks heard Hagrid’s dog barking, which woke her up. But the barking stopped after a few minutes, and she went back to sleep.”

Theo came to a stop near Harry, standing so close that Harry caught a whiff of his cologne. It was spicy—much like the man himself. “So Albus’ murder likely occurred somewhere between 11:45 at night and 3:00 in the morning.” 

“Right,” Harry agreed. “That means we can probably eliminate Hermione, because she was gone before Albus died.”

“And we can most likely eliminate Draco, because he wasn’t here during that time at all,” Pansy said. Her words were met with skeptical glances from both men. “What?” she asked. “He wasn’t.”

Theo grimaced. “I don’t know if we can rule him out yet. Denial of one’s inheritance—especially an inheritance of that size—is a rather common motive for murder. Perhaps he wanted to make sure Albus didn’t have time to change his will before he met his end.”

“Well then I don’t think we can really rule out anyone, can we?” Pansy snapped.

“Why are you both so sure it wasn’t a suicide?” Harry asked again. “Albus clearly cursed himself. His wand was in his hand, the marks on his body are consistent with Sectumsempra, and we used priori-incantatem on his wand. He was alone in his room at the time of his death. It is literally impossible for anyone else to have cursed him!” Harry broke off, gesturing wildly to the air around him as his voice rose several octaves. “I don’t know why we’re wasting our time even talking about this!”

“Because,” Theo replied, observing Harry calmly, “we still don’t know who sent me the Prophet clipping and the money, or for what purpose.” He pulled his wand from his pocket, twirling it deftly around his fingers before adding, “Besides, the fact remains that some of our interview subjects lied to us. Which begs the question—why?” 

“Everyone lies,” Pansy’s voice was acerbic.

Theo grinned. “Not everyone.”

< \------------------------------- >

Inside one of the manor’s many bathrooms, Hermione turned off the faucet, bracing her hands against the basin of the sink as she took several deep breaths, attempting to calm her roiling stomach and mind. While her lying-induced affliction was never pleasant, she felt especially dirty that it was now being used against her to ferret out the secrets of the Black family.

She checked her reflection in the ornate mirror, knowing she’d soon have to finish her interview with the Aurors and that eccentric private investigator. Apart from her curly mane of hair—which wasn’t really all that out of the ordinary—and her paler-than-usual complexion, she looked relatively normal. Calm. In control. _Steady on, Hermione,_ she thought to herself, squaring her shoulders and pulling the door open.

She wandered down the empty first floor hallway. Everyone was gone now, and the manor was quiet. She took advantage of the silence to soak in the sights and sounds of the home she had come to love, but most likely wouldn’t see again. That thought made her feel melancholy, tears pricking her eyes and a sad song playing through her mind.

It took her a moment to realize that the music was _not_ actually in her head, but was in fact coming from the open doors of the library just ahead. The notes from the piano lured her closer, floating and dancing through the air, rearranging into the familiar strains of _Clair de Lune,_ which had always been one of Albus’s favorites.

She approached the doorway slowly, not wanting to intrude on whomever was playing so beautifully, but feeling curious in spite of herself. As far as she knew, no one but Albus had played. 

She crossed the threshold and stopped, frozen in place. Sitting at the piano, pale head bent over the keys, was Draco Malfoy. 

Her heart beat faster at the sight of him, and she cursed herself. To say she had a bit of a crush on Albus’s grandson would be an understatement. Yes, he was spoiled, but he was also smart and sarcastic and _very_ pretty. 

Her one-sided attraction to Draco was problematic at the best of times, and this—a mere week after his grandfather had died a horrible, gruesome death—was definitely not the best of times. 

Yet her feet carried her closer, eyes drawn to the lean muscles of his back that shifted beneath his shirt as his fingers moved nimbly across the keys. _Of course he plays an instrument,_ Hermione thought, captivated in spite of herself.

Deciding that being caught mooning over him would be decidedly more embarrassing than a bout of public vomiting, she turned to leave. She had taken no more than a few steps before her foot caught on the corner of an end table and she stumbled, wincing at both her clumsiness and the abrupt cessation of the music.

“Granger?” Draco’s voice was surprised, but not annoyed. She turned to find his gray eyes locked on hers once more. Unlike that morning, he didn’t look away.

“Oh, hello Malfoy!” she said, aiming desperately for a nonchalant tone but landing rather closer to flustered. “Sorry to interrupt. I heard the music and I—well. I didn’t know you played,” she finished lamely.

“Since the age of five,” he replied. He stood, crossing the room to stand in front of her. “Did you just admit there’s something you don’t know?”

“Of course not,” she scoffed, then—realizing that he had been joking—allowed the smallest hint of a smile to cross her face. To her surprise, he smiled at her in return.

His eyes traveled over her face, and she fought the urge to squirm under his appraisal. One simple look from him made her more nervous than any of the investigators’ questions.

“Are you alright?” he asked softly.

“Alright?” she repeated.

“You know. After being questioned by the Aurors and my former school chum?” His lips quirked up at the mention of Theo. “And just, well...in general. You and my grandfather were quite close. This past week must have been difficult.”

She wasn’t quite sure how to reconcile this kinder, gentler Draco with the smirking man who usually showed up to family events. She felt confused, off-balance; two feelings she absolutely couldn’t abide.

“It _has_ been a difficult week,” she agreed. “I can’t really believe he’s gone. The funeral might have helped me gain some closure, but I wasn’t allowed—” she broke off abruptly, not wanting to speak ill of his aunt in front of him. 

When he spoke next, his voice was angrier than she’d ever heard it, eyes narrowed and mouth tight. “The funeral was a joke. Just Bellatrix and Andromeda pretending they were the perfect daughters, my mother pretending she doesn’t hate them, and me pretending I’d rather not be literally anywhere else.” He rolled his shoulders, reaching one hand up to massage the tension from the back of his neck. Hermione watched, helpless to tear her eyes away from the movement of his body. He glanced up at her before adding, “Fuck Bella for not letting you come.”

Hermione blinked, feeling even more taken aback at the ferocity of his words. “Um, thank you. I think?” She reached a hand out, starting to touch his arm before catching herself. “I’m sure my feelings are nothing compared to what you’ve been dealing with.” He dropped his gaze, and Hermione breathed a bit easier. Felt brave enough to offer: “I’m sure you know this, but he loved you very much.”

He laughed at that, though there was little humor in the sound. “He had a funny way of showing it sometimes. But I appreciate you saying so.”

She frowned, but chose not to follow him down that rabbit hole. Instead, she answered his earlier question. “I’m not quite finished with my Auror interview. They still have a few more questions for me, and I’m afraid I’ve gotten off to a bit of a rough start. How exactly do you know Theo Nott?” 

Draco shoved his hands into his trouser pockets, rocking back on his heels and smirking. _Ah, there he is,_ Hermione thought. 

“He and I attended Hogwarts together,” he said, referencing the posh boarding school that was all the rage for children of wizarding aristocracy. 

Being muggle-born, Hermione hadn’t attended a wizarding academy until she was in secondary school. Even then, Hogwarts had been a little _too_ costly, even for her dentist parents. Instead, she had attended one of the smaller regional wizarding schools located across Great Britain, following up her general education with specialized training and an apprenticeship program for her chosen profession.

“And you were friends?” she said, tapping the fingers of one hand nervously against her stomach. His eyes followed the motion, and she forced herself to stop. 

It took him a moment to respond. “Not really,” he finally replied, voice fully back to its usual level of snarkiness. “Pretty sure he thought I was a bloody menace.”

“Weren’t you?” she asked in spite of herself, and he chuckled, glancing up at her through his lashes.

“Touché, Granger.”

She shifted closer to him, curious. “Was your interview terrible?”

He stepped toward her and her breath caught, but then he was moving past her, long legs carrying him over to the bookshelves that held his grandfather’s novels. His fingers traced the spines, walking down the row before answering. “Not too terrible, no. Although I’m pretty sure I’m going to end up a suspect.”

“That’s ridiculous,” Hermione said fiercely. Draco turned to her, one brow arching in surprise at her tone. “Everyone knows you’re all talk,” she added in an attempt to save face.

“Be that as it may,” he agreed, not taking the bait on her backhanded compliment, “I had the most to gain from his untimely death.” He sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose between his long fingers. “Have the investigators asked you about me yet?”

“Do you think everyone just sits around and talks about you all the time?”

His eyes met hers once more, lips twitching in amusement. “Yes.”

She snorted.

He tried again, moving back across the room to stand in front of her, just as he had at the start of their unusually sincere interaction. “Have the Aurors or Theo tried to ask you anything about me and my grandfather?”

She inhaled shakily, breathing out her “No,” on the exhale. 

Draco said nothing, merely searched her face, the silence in the room broken only by the ticking of an enormous grandfather clock.

“Listen,” he added after a moment, voice urgent, “if they _do_ ask you about me...will you tell me?” He touched her arm with one hand, fingers trailing up her skin, goosebumps rising in their wake.

She opened her mouth to answer, but at that exact moment Pansy Parkinson appeared in the doorway, shrewdly observing the pair.

“We’re ready for you again, Miss Granger. Mr. Malfoy, you are free to go.” 

Draco pulled his hand away. He opened his mouth, perhaps to argue, but closed it abruptly as Theo and Harry arrived in the library. With one lingering, final glance at Hermione, he stalked out of the room. 

Harry gently touched her elbow, leading her to Albus’s desk. He pulled out the chair for her, then joined Pansy, pulling out his notebook and quill as he sat beside his partner. 

“Hermione,” Theo’s voice said from behind her, making her jump. He moved to stand between the others before continuing. “On the night of Albus’ 90th birthday party, you took him upstairs at 11:00 and left around 11:30, correct?”

She nodded slowly, attempting to calm her still-racing heart.

“Perfect. Now, I would like you to—very carefully and in as much detail as possible—please tell us what happened during those thirty minutes.”

Hermione took a deep breath, let it out slowly. _Here goes nothing,_ she thought. 

“Well,” she said, surprised at how steady her voice sounded. “I helped Albus upstairs, like I always did. He wanted to play our nightly game of chess, but I told him it was too late. He insisted, and I relented because it was his birthday.” Her hands gripped the arms of the chair, anchoring herself. “He accidentally knocked the board over, and Andi came upstairs to check on him. I gave him his medicinal potions, said goodnight, and left around 11:30pm. I went home, got straight in bed. I was very tired,” she finished, letting out an internal sigh of relief that she had made it through her version of the events. 

“What were the names of the potions he was taking?” Pansy asked.

“One was Heart Healer, a potion I created, similar to medication that muggles take after having a heart attack. It was a mixture of beta blockers to lower his blood pressure and anti-platelet agents to prevent his arteries from clogging. The other was a potent version of Dreamless Sleep, to help with pain management so he could rest.”

Pansy nodded, glancing at her partner, whose quill was once again taking frantic notes. “And his family knew he was taking these medications?”

“Of course.”

Harry picked up the questioning. “Was there anything strange about his demeanor that night? Anything that made you concerned about his physical or mental well-being?”

She hadn’t been prepared for that question. Her stomach gurgled. “No,” she said simply, swallowing hard.

Theo, who had been leaning against the back of Harry’s chair, stepped forward to shake her hand, effectively dismissing her. “I think that will do it for now, then. Thank you very much for your time, Hermione.”

Giving Theo and the Aurors a thin-lipped smile, Hermione stood, forcing her feet to travel the expanse of the library as slowly and calmly as she could. 

Once the door clicked shut behind her she ran, feet moving swiftly down the hallway to the nearest bathroom, stopping just long enough to turn the faucet on full blast. The rushing water was just loud enough to disguise the sound of her retching, vomiting up her lies along with the contents of her stomach.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The plot thickens! Who are your top suspects for Albus's murder? What do you think Hermione lied about?! 
> 
> I would love to have you share your thoughts with me, either in the comments or on [Tumblr](https://persephonestone.tumblr.com/)!
> 
> Chapter 3 (which is hands-down my FAVORITE chapter!) will post on Friday, 9/11.


	3. The Night of the Party

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Find out what _really_ happened the night of Albus's 90th birthday party.
> 
> But be warned: this changes **everything...**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always, huge thanks to [mightbewriting](https://archiveofourown.org/users/mightbewriting) and [granger_danger](https://archiveofourown.org/users/granger_danger) for the hours they've spent making sure my plot makes sense, my characters are consistent and well-developed, and my writing is grammatically correct. They are literally the best!
> 
> Now buckle up, friends. You're in for a bumpy ride!

Hermione followed Albus up the winding staircase of the manor, leaving the noise of the party below them. Andromeda and Lucius could still be heard arguing about whether or not muggle-borns should be allowed to vote in wizarding elections, which made Albus’s feet move a bit faster on the carpeted stairs, carrying him away from his family’s embarrassing opinions.

“Slow down, old man,” Hermione called. Despite her comment, Albus _was_ in remarkably good shape for his age. Although wizards tended to have much longer lifespans than their muggle counterparts, ninety was still quite a milestone to reach. Yet Albus moved as easily up the stairs as someone half his age.

He chuckled as they finally reached his suite of rooms, glancing over his shoulder and smiling at Hermione. “You just want to get to the wizard’s chess set first, so you can cheat.”

“How dare you,” she laughed, the sound bubbling up from her throat. “But we’re not playing chess tonight. It’s late, and I had a glass of champagne, so you’d have an unfair advantage. What we _are_ going to do,” she said, bending to grab her black medical bag from its usual place by the door, “is give you your medication, and then _you_ are going to bed.”

Albus grimaced. “Can’t we skip one night of that vile poison? It _is_ my birthday, after all.”

She shook her head sternly, gesturing for him to take a seat as she pulled out two potion bottles and syringes. Sweeping her hair back into a loose, low ponytail, she set the bottles on the leather ottoman in front of him. 

“Alright, I’ll take it. _If_ you agree to play one round of wizard’s chess,” Albus said.

She laughed, knowing he’d take it regardless, but deciding to humor him. “You are so manipulative,” she teased, rolling one potion bottle between her hands to warm the liquid inside.

With a flick of his wand, the chess board assembled itself on the ottoman, its pieces moving quickly to their correct starting positions. Albus sighed as he dropped onto the settee, already rolling up his sleeve in preparation for the nightly dose of the potion that helped keep his arteries functioning properly. Unlike most wizarding potions, this was a special concoction that Hermione had to brew fresh weekly—a medicinal melding of muggle and St. Mungo’s that needed to be administered intravenously in order to carefully control the dosage. She called it Heart Healer.

They began their game, playing in silence until Hermione sent one of her knights up and over, its rider gesticulating threateningly at Albus’s pawn. “Prepare to feel my blade, you scurrilous knave!” its tiny voice squeaked out.

Albus groaned, recognizing her move as the strategic one that it was—knowing from experience that she would have his King in check in no time. He scrubbed one knobbly hand over his face, scratching at the thick white beard that he kept cropped close to his jaw.

“I should have known you wouldn’t take it easy on me, even though I’m an old, frail, sick man,” he said, sending his own pawn out of the way of Hermione’s aggressive knight.

She smiled, raising a brow as she made her next move. “Don’t be so dramatic, Albus. This isn’t one of your stories.”

He huffed, an offended sound. “My ‘stories,’ I’ll have you know, are exceptionally well-written.”

“I’m sure they are.”

They played in silence for a few more minutes, until—accepting his imminent defeat—Albus leaned back against the cushions of the settee, letting out an exaggerated moan. “Why can’t I beat you?”

“You will some day,” she answered, sending her knight to checkmate Albus’s King. She grinned at him before cheekily adding: “Maybe by your 100th birthday?” 

He laughed, shifting to cross one of his exceptionally long legs over the other. In the process, he kicked the chess board, sending it and all its pieces crashing to the ground, along with the two potion bottles.

“Albus!” Hermione laughed, kneeling on the floor and collecting the bottles. “You did that on purpose, you sore loser.”

He waved his wand again, sending the chess set back to its place on a low side table. “You can’t prove that,” he said. 

“Alright, enough games. Time for your medicine.” She bit down on the plastic cap of one syringe with her teeth, removing it and plunging the needle into the Heart Healer bottle, carefully measuring out 100 mL of his nightly heart medication. Moving to sit next to him, she performed a quick numbing spell on the skin of his inner arm before inserting the needle into his flesh.

As she slowly depressed the plunger of the syringe, she watched the expression on Albus’ face. “How was tonight?” she asked softly.

“Oh, it went about as well as could be expected,” he replied, leaning his head against the back of the settee and closing his eyes.

“I know you were dreading it.”

He nodded. “I did it, though. It’s over. I cut the strings on all of them. I only wish I’d done it sooner.” His pale blue eyes opened, glancing at her before drifting shut once more. “This gods-damned fortune,” he whispered after a moment.

She said nothing, merely continued the slow administration of his potion. She knew how Albus’s mind worked—as much as he excelled at communicating via the written word, he often needed time to think and process before speaking.

“I should have listened to you months ago,” he finally said, laying his free hand atop hers, patting it gently before pulling away. “Should have encouraged Bellatrix to start her own company, write her own stories, rather than just sell mine. Should have been a father to Andromeda, not just a provider. Shouldn’t have ever let Narcissa doubt how proud of her I am—how proud I’ve always been. And Draco—” he broke off with a choked sound. 

Hermione looked up at him, surprised.

“Gods, Draco,” he said quietly. “He is so much like I was at his age. Confident and stupid. Handsome, of course, although I can take no credit for that.” He laughed, the sound of it watery and sad. “But he has so much that I never had—money, prestige, opportunity. I don’t want to see him waste all his potential because he has never had to take a risk.”

Hermione removed the needle from Albus’s arm, whispering a spell to soothe the ache and prevent any bleeding. “Well I’m glad you’re happy with the outcome of the night,” she said softly, patting his knee. “Now. You’ve had a long day. Want a bit of the good stuff to ensure a good night’s sleep?” She grabbed the second potion bottle, waggling her eyebrows at Albus in an attempt to lighten his somber mood.

“The good stuff, eh?” Albus chuckled. “You know me too well.”

“That I do,” she replied, reaching for a new syringe and rolling the bottle in her palm. Her eyes caught on the label, on the looping golden script that she had written out so carefully in the potions lab at St. Mungo’s, ensuring that this—an especially potent version of the more common Dreamless Sleep, only given in small doses to wizards and witches who dealt with intense pain—would never be accidentally given to the wrong patient, or in the wrong dosage.

Except what Hermione held in her hand _wasn’t_ her Dreamless Sleep potion.

It was the Heart Healer.

Her knees buckled, fingers grasping blindly at the edge of the coffee table to prevent herself from collapsing onto the floor. Her vision blurred, a buzzing sound filling her ears and making it hard to hear Albus saying her name. 

“Hermione? Are you quite alright?” His voice floated to her, muffled, as though he were speaking to her whilst she was underwater.

“No, no, no, no,” she murmured as she grasped blindly for the other potion bottle, hands trembling so badly that she nearly dropped it. She blinked quickly in an attempt to clear her vision, hoping it was a mere trick of the light. 

“Hermione?” Albus’s voice wavered with concern.

She raised her gaze to his, speechless at her horrifying error. She had never—not once—made a mistake in the five years since beginning her Healer training. But now, with this man who had grown to mean so much to her—she made a fatal one. She couldn’t believe it.

“Albus,” she said, voice hoarse. She would have cried if her body had been functioning properly. “I fucked up.”

His brows rose at her language, but he merely sat quietly, waiting for her to explain.

“I gave you 100mL of this—” she held up the first potion bottle, its label turned for him to see. 

“The good stuff? How much are you supposed to have given me?”

“5mL,” she answered, feeling as though she was going to be sick.

“Oh dear,” Albus said, seemingly undisturbed despite her admission. “That is much less.”

A choked sob escaped her throat. Dropping the potion bottles back onto the ottoman, she dove for her medical bag, digging through it frantically.

“So what happens now?”

“I give you a bezoar so you don’t die in ten minutes,” she answered, still pawing madly at the bag’s interior.

Albus, so calm in the middle of her emotional storm, sat back and stretched his arms out across the back of the settee. “You know, this is a very efficient method of murder. I should probably write it down once you’ve located the bezoar.” He paused, tilting his head in thought. “If someone switched the potions on purpose, I’d be dead in ten minutes, you say?”

Feeling on the verge of hysteria, Hermione dumped the contents of the medical bag out on the rug, eyes roving frantically over the bottles, syringes, gauze, and bandages within. “Yes,” she wheezed, barely able to get the words out past the lump that had taken up residence in her throat. “You’d start showing symptoms in five minutes. Dizziness, disorientation, lethargy—a dose that big—your brain—” she broke off with a whimper. 

“It’s been roughly three minutes since you gave me the potion,” Albus said, analytical as ever, even in the face of death. “It’s too far to apparate to St. Mungo’s in one go, plus we’d have to walk down the drive to the apparition point. It would also take us several minutes to get downstairs to use the Floo. Even then,” he mused, “it would take longer than we have to get the antidote I need. If you didn’t have a bezoar—” he trailed off, watching her. “Hermione? Do you have a bezoar?”

“Yes,” she wept, “I always have one in my medical bag.” She pulled out her wand, sobbing a desperate “Accio, bezoar!” into the room. 

Nothing happened.

She let herself wallow for a mere second, squeezing her eyes shut as she tearily confessed. “It’s not in here, Albus. I don’t know why.” Standing, she reached for his hand. “Let’s go downstairs to the Floo. I’ll help you move quickly, we’ll make it in time—”

“ _Petrificus Totalus,_ ” she heard Albus’s voice whisper.

Then she was falling, arms and legs locked to her sides, voice frozen in her throat. She hit the ground hard, barely registering that she was no longer upright before he was leaning over her, wand in hand, voice low and deadly serious.

“Hermione, listen to me,” he said. “We don’t have time. If what you told me is true—and I know it is because you _can’t_ lie to anyone, and _wouldn’t_ lie to me—then I’m gone. You can’t save me. The Healers at St. Mungo’s can’t save me.” He reached out a hand, betraying only the slightest tremble of fear as he brushed the curls out of her face. “We can, however, save _you._ ”

She couldn’t speak, so she tried to put all the things she wanted so desperately to tell him— _no, please don’t do this, let me try to save you—_ into her eyes. His eyes smiled back at her, gently telling her his answer: no.

“If anyone investigates my death, you will lose your job. You will be tried by the Wizengamot. And with your previous offense, you will be sent to Azkaban. I will _not_ let that happen to you,” he continued fiercely. “Now, I am going to release you from the full body bind I hit you with, and you are going to listen to my plan. We have six minutes left.”

Hermione felt the feeling return to her body, tears rolling down her cheeks as she sat up and clutched Albus’s hands. “Albus,” she croaked, voice shaky, and he smiled sadly at her. “What do I do?”

He opened his mouth to speak, but was interrupted by a knock at his door. Gesturing to Hermione to act naturally, he moved to answer it. 

Hermione turned her back, using the opportunity to put her medical supplies back into her bag, blinking furiously to keep her tears from falling. From behind her, she heard Andromeda speak quietly to Albus, dimly registered Albus telling his daughter that they had accidentally knocked over the chess board, but everything was fine, Hermione was just preparing to leave, and then he was going to bed. 

“I love you Andi. I love you all more than you’ll ever know,” he finished quietly, and then the door shut. He sighed, and Hermione turned to face him. His hand fisted against the door, clenching and unclenching before he collected himself. Turning quickly, he strode over to Hermione. He stumbled, and she caught him, helping him into his bedroom as he spoke in her ear.

“Pay attention, Hermione. You need to do exactly what I tell you—” he sat on the edge of his bed, kicking his shoes off before lying back against the mountain of pillows. His eyes squeezed closed for the briefest moment, and Hermione watched him will his body into compliance. 

“Now,” he said, voice betraying not a single trace of pain or fear. “Here’s what you need to do.”

<\------------------------------->

Hermione hurried down the stairs, legs trembling so badly that she had to stop on the landing so that she wouldn’t pitch down them head-first. Albus’s instructions swirled through her mind, and she allowed herself one extra moment to press her palm to her mouth, stifling the sob that threatened to escape, before rushing the rest of the way down to the first floor.

_Go downstairs. Make sure the others notice you leaving._

“Well, I’m leaving for the night!” she called out to Bellatrix, whom she could see smoking on the large front porch. She pushed her way through the door, pulling it shut behind her and lifting her arm in an exaggerated motion to look at her watch. Bellatrix eyed her cooly, exhaling smoke in two wispy plumes from her nostrils.

_Call attention to the time._

“Wow, it’s late—already 11:30!” Hermione said cheerily, sighing in relief when Bellatrix glanced down at her own watch to confirm that it was, in fact, 11:30. Not waiting for—or expecting—a response from the frosty witch, Hermione hurried down the drive, anxious to complete the next step of their plan.

_Leave the manor and head toward the apparition point._

For one insane moment as she walked, she wished she had read at least one of Albus’s novels, because she felt completely unequipped to successfully carry out such a complicated scheme. She quickly shook that unhelpful thought from her head. She needed to focus. She _couldn’t_ make any more mistakes. Drawing a deep breath, she increased her pace along the gravel drive.

_Walk until you pass the carved hippogriffs, so my security cameras will record you leaving. Then step off the road and circle back to the house._

Wait, Hermione thought, skidding to a halt. _Did he say to circle back before the hippogriffs or after?_ She couldn’t remember—her heart pounding and mind racing too fast for her to think clearly. Making a split second decision, she leapt off the path before the hippogriffs, casting a quiet _lumos_ and hurrying back to the house through the thickly wooded property.

_Enter through the side gate—if Fang is out, he won’t bark because he loves you._

As she stepped out of the woods, she saw a light on in Hagrid’s cottage, a plume of smoke curling slowly from the stone chimney. Hermione moved carefully, not wanting to draw the attention of the caretaker through something as small as the accidental snap of a twig. As she rounded the side of the cottage, she saw Fang’s enormous head resting atop the windowsill, bleary eyes opening as she crept by. His head lifted, large tail giving three audible thumps at the sight of one of his most loyal admirers, but Albus had been right: he didn’t bark. Hermione sent him a small wave, then hurried on, back toward the manor.

_Back at the house, climb the trellis and enter the house through the trick window on the third floor._

“Well, fuck,” she breathed, standing at the base of the trellis and looking up—and up and up—at the long climb to the third floor. Knowing that her window of time to successfully pull off Albus’s scheme was narrowing, she grabbed the splintered wood of the trellis, twining her fingers through the star jasmine vines to help herself find purchase while she climbed. 

Her progress was slow, but steady. She got a little too confident between the second and third floor of the house, trying to pull herself up a longer section of trellis to reach her destination more quickly. Her foot slipped, breaking off a jagged section and sending it tumbling to the lawn below. She righted herself almost immediately, pressing her forehead to the vines in front of her and willing her heart rate to slow before continuing.

Finally, she pushed her way into the house, climbing through the hidden panel on the third floor cleverly disguised as a window. She hurried back to Albus’s suite, refusing to let her eyes or mind drift to what lurked on the other side of his bedroom door.

_Put on my robe and nightcap and go downstairs, so the others see “me” alive after you’ve left._

Hermione pulled on his red and gold striped robe, stuffing her enormous mane of hair under his cap before re-tracing her steps down the staircase. When she reached the first floor landing she slowed, mimicking Albus’s gait. She paused long enough to catch Bellatrix’s eye, watching her turn and see what she thought was her father through the frosted glass of the front door.

“Go back to bed, Father!” Bellatrix called. “It’s late. You can have more cake for breakfast.”

Hermione lifted her hand in a wave, allowing Bellatrix to see Albus acknowledging her, then slowly re-climbed the stairs, tears stinging her eyes at the fondness she’d heard in Bellatrix’s voice. 

_Leave the way you came, and most importantly—don’t be seen!_

Once she was securely back inside Albus’s suite of rooms, she replaced the robe and cap, then made her way back down the hallway, through the window, down the trellis, across the lawns (with three more loud tail thumps from Fang), through the woods, and to the apparition point, where she disapparated back to her flat.

Finally safe and alone, she ran to her bedroom, pulling at her jacket and kicking off her shoes as she went. Blinded by tears, she tripped, landing face-down on her lumpy mattress. She pulled her legs up and into herself, curling into the fetal position, allowing the sobs that she had been holding in for what felt like hours break free. As she cried, she thought of her last moments with Albus, letting the grief wrack her body as penance for her horrible mistake.

_“Albus,” she had said a mere hour ago, “I can’t do this. I can’t lie—you know I can’t!”_

_“Don’t lie then,” he’d said weakly, grasping for her hand. “Tell fragments of the truth, in this exact order. We will make your alibi so airtight that the Aurors will completely dismiss you as a suspect. Trust me, this will work.”_

_“Please,” she’d said one last time, pleading with him to go downstairs to the Floo. To St. Mungo’s. To help, even though she knew they’d never make it in time._

_“My dear Hermione,” he had said, clutching his wand tightly in one hand while he held hers with the other. “I will always be so grateful that you were my friend during these last years of my life. You are as dear to me as my own grandchildren, and I will not allow you to ruin your life over a simple mistake. Now go,” he had whispered hoarsely, pressing a kiss to her knuckles and then releasing them, pushing her toward the door. “Close the door behind you, and don’t open it again, no matter what.”_

_She had nodded, trembling in fear but forcing her feet to move through sheer strength of will. Taking one last look at the man she had come to care for so deeply, she’d pulled the door shut, leaning back against it and taking a deep breath to steady her nerves._

_Through the thick, carved wood against her back, she’d heard Albus murmur two words—Sectumsempra!—and she had almost turned, almost opened the door...but she had promised him. So instead, she’d pushed herself forward, down the stairs, to set his plan in motion._

In her bedroom, she turned her face into her pillow, the sounds of her guilt and grief muffled by the soft down. 

She lay there for hours, unmoving, until her muscles were stiff and her throat was raw from crying.

Then, as the sun’s first rays came peeking through the blinds in her bedroom, she pulled herself up, ignoring the protest of her limbs, to take a quick shower and get dressed. 

After all, today was Albus Dumbledore’s 90th birthday, and she couldn’t be late for work.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter Four will be posted SATURDAY 9/19.
> 
> In the meantime, I live for your comments! I am also on [Tumblr](https://persephonestone.tumblr.com/) and would love to have some company!


	4. The Memorial

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Black family holds a memorial for their late patriarch. 
> 
> The "idiots to lovers" needle inches closer to "lovers."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always, a huge thank you to [mightbewriting](https://archiveofourown.org/users/mightbewriting) and [granger_danger](https://archiveofourown.org/users/granger_danger) for their invaluable alpha and beta work! I feel truly lucky to be able to have their input, feedback, and friendship!
> 
> Also, for those wondering: Draco and Tonks are approximately the same age in this story.

Twenty-four hours after the conclusion of their interviews, Harry dropped heavily into the chair behind his desk, leaning his head against the wobbly headrest and eyeing the cluttered space in front of him.

Pansy entered the office behind him, carrying two paper cups of takeaway coffee from the elf-owned cart downstairs. She set one cup on his desk before perching on the edge, pushing a stack of papers out of the way with a dismissive sniff.

Unlike his own desk, which more often than not looked as though a niffler had been turned loose upon it, Pansy kept her desk meticulously organized: papers placed neatly in their appropriate trays, quills displayed artfully in a jar, a single potted orchid providing a touch of personality to the otherwise sterile workspace.

It was one reason the two were such good partners: they were a study in complementary opposites. She was organized, he was not. She did things by the book, he relied more on instinct and intuition. She kept her cool in every situation, he often lost control of himself when tensions were high.

“So what do you think?” he asked her, sipping his coffee—light cream and three sugars, just the way he liked it. Bless Pansy’s excellent memory.

She blew out a breath, ruffling the artful fringe of her hair. “About what—the family? Hermione Granger? Albus Dumbledore?”

Harry smiled, feeling sheepish. “I was actually asking about Theo Nott, but I guess we can talk about the case.”

Pansy groaned, hopping off his desk and crossing to her own. “Merlin, Potter. Get it together. If this is how you act when a pretty man flirts with you, I’d hate to see what happens if he actually tries to seduce you.”

Harry choked, spraying coffee across his desk, causing Pansy to double over with laughter. 

“You are so easy to rile up,” she teased, winking at him before sinking gracefully into her chair, quickly immersing herself in the endless paperwork that came with being an Auror.

After a few minutes of listening to her quill scratching along a sheet of parchment, Harry spoke again. “He was rather odd, wasn’t he?”

Pansy arched a brow. “Theo?”

“Albus.”

She set down her quill, eyeing him across their small shared office. “I suppose, yes. Eccentric, unique, odd...all words that can be used to describe either geniuses or madmen.”

He nodded. It was rather hard to tell which Albus had been. “Do you think one of his family members killed him?”

“Hard to say,” she replied with a shrug. “As Theo said, most of them lied during their interviews. And they all had something to gain from his death. I’ve seen people do terrible things for money,” she added, a shadow crossing her face.

Harry knew that she was referring to her own father—currently residing on the greater European continent after being banished from wizarding Britain when Pansy was just a child.

“My money is on Bellatrix,” Harry suggested, shuddering at the memory of her snake-like eyes, unblinking and predatory. “Having her ideas rejected for years before being fired from a very lucrative position? That would make anyone furious.”

“I don’t know,” Pansy said. “Lucius had a pretty good motive, as well. If he’s in trouble with the goblins, and was in danger of losing his only source of income if Narcissa found out about his affair and divorced him...well, that could make a man desperate.”

“What do you think—” Harry began, but trailed off as he heard a commotion from outside their open office door. A moment later, Theo Nott strode through, swirling his royal blue peacoat, as regal as any muggle prince. A lock of hair fell rather dashingly across his forehead, hazel eyes full of mischief as they locked on Harry’s.

“Hullo, lovely,” he sighed, bowing theatrically. “And Pansy,” he added, meeting her scowl with a wink.

“What are you doing here, Theo?” Harry asked, rather more breathlessly than he’d planned.

“Theo now, is it?” He grinned. “I just wanted to let you know that the Black sisters are holding a memorial at the family manor tonight. In approximately—” he paused to check his pocket watch—“one hour. The entire family will be there, in addition to all of Albus’s staff. Thought you two might want to tag along and finish up our interviews.” 

Theo strolled to Harry’s desk, plucking the coffee cup from his fingers and taking a long sip. His eyes widened, face contorted, and he turned, taking two quick steps away from Harry to spit the mouthful of sugary liquid into the nearest rubbish bin. 

“Good God, Harry,” he managed. “Do you drink this swill every day? How have all your teeth not rotted straight out of your head?”

Harry flushed, but didn’t take the bait. Instead, he stood, reclaiming his coffee cup, allowing his fingers to brush lightly over Theo’s before lifting the cup to his lips and draining it. Theo’s eyes watched him, tracking the movement of Harry’s Adam’s apple as he swallowed. Harry dropped the empty coffee cup in the bin, eyes locked on Theo’s face all the while. 

Finally, he turned, snatching his own coat off the back of his chair and motioning to Pansy, who was perched on the edge of her chair, practically salivating at the tension between the two men. “It appears we have a memorial to attend, Pans,” he tossed over his shoulder as he moved toward the door. “Are you coming?” he added, arching a brow at Theo. 

That signature grin, which Harry was feeling increasingly conflicted about, reappeared on Theo’s face. “Wouldn’t miss it for the world.”

 _We’ll see who can’t handle a little flirting,_ thought Harry, a spring in his step as the three investigators made their way to the lifts. 

< \------------------------------- >

The sun was setting as Hermione strode up the drive toward the manor house, the sky painted a brilliant shade of orange. She was so lost in thought that she didn’t register another pair of footsteps crunching on the gravel behind her until a pale head of hair appeared in her peripheral vision. 

“Guess you were invited this time,” Draco remarked, one corner of his mouth pulling up in a half smile.

“No, actually I’m gate-crashing,” she deadpanned. “Do you think Bellatrix or your mother will hex me first?”

He gaped at her a moment, a surprised sound escaping his lips as he realized she was joking. “Nice one, Granger. But my money is definitely on Bellatrix. My mother likes you.”

“I knew she had good taste.”

“The best,” he smirked at her. That smirk had played a starring role in some of her most lurid daydreams, damn him.

They walked the rest of the way in silence, ascending the front steps together. Draco held the door open for her, gesturing for her to go in ahead of him. No sooner had she crossed the threshold than she found herself swept into the waiting arms of Rosmerta.

“Oh, Hermione!” Rosmerta gasped, pulling her deeper into the foyer and leaving Draco behind. “I’m so happy to see you—I’ve been stuck talking to _Pomona.”_ She shuddered dramatically, and Hermione smiled as she stepped out of the housekeeper’s embrace. Rosmerta and Pomona’s dislike of one another was notorious; it had been the topic of many of Albus’s laughing conversations with Hermione.

“How have you been?” Hermione asked gently, steering Rosmerta into the drawing room, where food and refreshments had been set up by the house elves.

Rosmerta’s eyes welled, a single tear spilling over her bottom lashes and tracking down her heavily made up cheek. “You’re the first person to ask me that.” Her voice quavered, fingers twisting in the folds of her long skirt. “If I’m being honest, things have been awful. I can barely eat. Can’t sleep. Every time I close my eyes I see Albus with his chest sliced open.” She broke off, turning to pour herself a tumbler of firewhiskey. Her hands shook, the amber liquid sloshing messily over the rim of the glass. Taking pity on the obviously traumatized housekeeper, Hermione gently took the snifter of firewhiskey out of her hands, pouring a few fingers and handing her the tumbler. 

“I’m so sorry, Rosmerta,” she said gently, watching the housekeeper gulp down the drink, wince at the burn of alcohol, and then immediately move to pour another.

Rosmerta nodded in thanks. “And if _that_ wasn’t bad enough, I have to be interviewed by the Aurors in a bit, after they finish with Hagrid.”

Hermione felt her heart seize in her chest. She hadn’t been expecting them, hadn’t mentally prepared herself or her story. “The Aurors are here tonight?”

“Needed to finish up their questioning of ‘the help,’ or some such rot,” Rosmerta said, voice bitter. “As if any of us who worked at this house would harm a hair on Albus’s head.”

Hermione gulped, not trusting herself to speak. 

“You two starting without me?” came a voice from behind Hermione. She turned to find Tonks leaning in the doorway, smiling mischievously. Her hair—a brilliant shade of blue tonight—shone in the candlelight, a perfect match for the wrap dress she wore. 

Rosmerta snorted into her second firewhiskey. “Sorry love,” she said to Tonks. “If I’m to get through this night, I’m going to need something stronger than gilly water.”

Tonks giggled, snatching a glass of champagne off of a floating tray as she crossed the room. “You and me both, Rosie.” She tilted her head back, draining the glass in one go.

Hermione’s attention wandered as they began chatting about Rosmerta’s cousin, who had just been promoted to a new job at the Ministry. She saw Bellatrix sitting by the fireplace, scowling into the flames as she nursed a glass of blood-red wine. Andromeda, who had apparently arrived with Tonks, was currently interrogating one of the house elves on whether or not the sticky toffee pudding was vegan. Draco was lounging on the sofa next to his mother, looking as though he could cheerfully murder a spot on the floor as his father leaned against a nearby wall, loudly inquiring to the air in front of him as to whether or not muggles were born with teeth.

“I’m telling you, I don’t think he offed himself,” Rosmerta’s serious tone pulled Hermione’s attention from the Malfoy men back to the conversation happening at her elbow. “Rich and successful as he was, and at his age? He had absolutely no reason to. It just doesn’t make sense.” 

Hermione was spared more of Rosmerta’s theories by the appearance of Harry in the doorway. He beckoned to the housekeeper, who threw back the rest of her firewhiskey, passing the glass off to Tonks before following Harry out of the room. 

Draco stood, strolling over to his cousin and Hermione, filling a tumbler full of firewhiskey with a flick of his wand. “Have anything stronger, Dora?” he drawled, arching a pale brow at Tonks.

“Don’t fucking call me that, you wanker,” Tonks hissed. “And no, not on me.” She leaned into Hermione and Draco conspiratorially. “But I know where to find some. I’ll show you if you promise to keep your mouths shut.”

Draco held his hands up in acquiescence, which seemed to be good enough for Tonks. She grabbed both of their hands, pulling them behind her out of the drawing room, their feet moving quickly down the darkened hallway. 

A moment later Tonks pushed through the library doors, stepping into the patchwork of moonlight covering the floor. Standing here now, with the room lit only by the moon, Hermione felt a creeping sense of dread, the moving shadows from the trees outside provoking a full body shiver. She felt Draco’s eyes on her, but refused to admit her fears aloud. The only sound to be heard was the ticking of the grandfather clock, which turned out to be Tonks’s intended destination. 

“This is where Rosmerta keeps her secret stash,” Tonks whispered, pushing a carved lion on the left side of the clock. A small door popped open, revealing a compartment containing several rolled cigarettes—or at least, what appeared to be cigarettes. Hermione doubted there was anything so innocent as tobacco in them.

Draco chuckled, accepting one of the joints from Tonks and leaning into her lit wand as he inhaled deeply. He blew a series of smoke rings as he exhaled, then offered it to Hermione. She declined with a quick shake of her head. 

He shrugged, passing it to Tonks instead. She brought it to her lips, then seemed to think better of her choice to smoke inside her grandfather’s home.

“Let’s go outside,” she murmured. Hermione tried to protest, saying she should really get back to the party, but Tonks insisted. Draco stood just behind his cousin, an unreadable expression on his face as he watched Hermione waffle. She sighed, knowing her resistance was futile—and false, as she genuinely enjoyed talking to Tonks and felt a bit fluttery at the opportunity to talk to Draco, as well. She nodded, holding his gaze.

Then they were moving back out into the hallway, giggling quietly as Draco tripped on the Persian rug and hissed “Motherfucker,” under his breath, spilling through the front door and rushing around the side of the house to an outdoor seating area. Curved stone benches were arranged in a circle, a fire pit holding court in the middle. Tonks lit the fire with her wand, then dropped onto one of the stone benches, placing the joint to her lips and inhaling deeply, a look of relief on her face.

“This fucking family,” she said, exhaling plumes of thick white smoke along with the words. “We made it what, five minutes tonight before needing to get high?”

Draco laughed, taking the joint from Tonks before sitting next to Hermione. “Did you hear my father? It’s a wonder I haven’t been sent to the rehab clinic at St. Mungo’s by now. Maybe you’d be my Healer, Granger,” he said, bumping her shoulder with his. 

Hermione flushed, saying nothing. 

“At least we didn’t have to talk to _Pomona,”_ Tonks said, grimacing.

“Indeed.” Even while participating in recreational drug use, Draco was ever the posh aristocrat. “She gives me the fucking creeps. Always has. Do you remember the time we caught her going through your mum’s rubbish bins while we were playing at your house? When we were what—seven or eight?”

Tonks snorted. “Yes! I told Mum and she told me to forget it. That she was probably just looking for banana peels for her compost pile.”

Draco rolled his eyes. “Good old Andi. Avoid confrontation by any means possible.”

“Nymphie, darling, let that anger _go,”_ Tonks’ voice came out high pitched and high class, a surprisingly good imitation of her mother. “Your skin and your chi will thank you. Now come, let’s do fifty kegels and have a vegan, cruelty-free enema.”

Draco choked mid-inhale, laughing and coughing so hard that Hermione had to thump him solidly on the back. 

“Alright, alright Granger. I yield,” he managed after a few more coughs, passing the joint back to Tonks. 

They sat in silence awhile, staring into the flickering flames. But the November night was cold, the fire no match against the bitter chill of the late fall evening. They had run out of the house without their coats, and despite the warming charm she cast over herself, Hermione shivered. 

“Would you like me to get your coat?” Draco asked softly, and she looked up to find that he had moved closer to her on the bench, his thigh mere centimeters away from her own. She couldn’t _actually_ feel the warmth of his body, but he was close enough that she could imagine it. 

“I’ll go,” Tonks said loudly, jumping to her feet. She looked back and forth between Draco and Hermione, lips pursed in a mischievous smile before she turned, flouncing off around the corner with a swish of her skirt. 

Alone with Draco, Hermione found herself at a loss for words. She realized—not for the first time—that she didn’t actually know all that much about him, at least not anything she’d learned from him directly. Albus had been very proud of his grandson, this was true, but ultimately had only a grandfather’s limited perspective. 

“Um,” she began, desperate to fill the awkward silence that had settled between them in the absence of Tonks’s vivacious personality. “Albus told me you enjoy potions?”

His brows raised in mild surprise. “He did?”

She nodded quickly, hair falling into her eyes. He reached up, as if to brush it back, then seemed to think better of it, placing his hand underneath his thigh. She lifted her own hand instead, and his eyes followed the movement. 

“Right. Potions. Yes, I do enjoy potions—both the research and the skill. Not to brag,” he paused, shooting her an arch look that acknowledged he usually bragged quite a lot, “but I’m actually rather good at them.”

“Did you do a potion mastery after Hogwarts, then?”

He nodded, shifting even closer to her on the bench. Now their legs were less than a millimeter apart. Hermione’s whole body vibrated at the closeness. 

“I did. Grandfather said you brewed some of his medicinal potions? You must be quite good as well, then.”

She blinked, surprised that one: Draco and Albus talked about her at all, and two: that Draco remembered something as specific as this. Her heart lifted, but then the words truly registered and she felt it plummet back to her feet, where it had resided since the night of her terrible mistake. 

“Erm, yes I do. Did. I did. Brew them.” If the ground had opened up just then and swallowed her, she would have rejoiced. 

“You know I wanted to open my own potion shop?” Draco asked, leaning even further into her space. His face was close to hers, the firelight dancing over the angles of his face in a way that could have hypnotized her, had she looked long enough. “Still want to, actually.”

Her eyes met his.

“You want to?” she breathed.

His eyes dropped to her lips. “Yes, I do. Quite a lot, actually.”

Finding that she could no longer speak, could barely breathe, she gave up trying—merely existed in this moment, so perfect yet so, so awful, because nothing could ever come of this, not when she’d done what she’d done. But that didn’t stop her from breathing in Draco’s cologne, letting the clean, masculine smell invade her senses. It didn’t stop her from swaying forward, close enough to see his pupils blown wide with hunger. It didn’t stop her from feeling a tingling in her body when she saw his tongue dart out to wet his lips.

What _did_ stop her was the sound of Narcissa’s voice, unintelligible but unmistakable, chatting amiably with Tonks as they both rounded the corner, coats slung over their arms. 

“Draco, darling!” Narcissa cried, voice surprised as Hermione jerked away from him, putting much-needed space between their bodies. “Nymphadora was telling me that you two were sitting outside without your coats. I must apologize, Hermione,” she continued, hurrying over to her and draping a coat that was definitely _not_ the one she had arrived in around her shoulders. Behind her, Tonks grimaced, mouthing, “I’m sorry,” to Draco and Hermione. “I raised my son better than that. Here, this is a sample piece from my new collection. Cashmere, fully lined, and belted to showcase this lovely waist. A gift for you,” Narcissa smiled as she spoke, fluffing Hermione’s hair around the collar.

“Oh, Mrs. Malfoy, I couldn’t accept—”

Narcissa waved her hand dismissively, cutting off Hermione’s protest. “Nonsense. You can and you shall. In fact, this is why I followed Nymphadora out here when I caught her lurking in the coat room, strange girl”—Tonks rolled her eyes—“I wanted to assure you, Hermione, that this family will always, _always_ be here for you. And we want to make sure you are taken care of. Financially,” she added, looking uncomfortable at the gauche necessity of speaking about money. 

“Good grief, Mother,” Draco murmured, staring down at his feet.

“Oh,” Hermione finally said, wanting to decline but also not wanting to offend. “Thank you. That’s—that’s very kind of you.”

“It’s the least we can do. You were so dear to my father, took such good care of him,” Narcissa said, eyes bright with unshed tears.

Hermione gulped, searching frantically for something to say—other than _Oh but didn’t you know? I’m responsible for his death!_ —when a savior in the very unlikely form of Theo Nott stepped out of the shadows. He stopped short upon seeing them, face breaking into a rapturous grin. “Good evening Mrs. Malfoy. Miss Tonks. Miss Granger. Draco,” he said, bowing to each of them in turn. “The Aurors and I are finished for the night. I was hoping to catch Miss Granger before I left, so imagine my delight at finding you all here! And what a lovely coat that is, Hermione!” he cried, leaning forward to check the label. “‘Narcissa’—I should have known. I do wish you’d start making menswear, Mrs. Malfoy. I’d be your best customer.”

Narcissa smiled, pleased at the compliment. She turned, pressing a quick kiss to Hermione’s cheek before taking her niece’s arm. “Come, Draco,” she called over her shoulder, and Draco begrudgingly stood. 

“You’ll be alright?” he asked Hermione. She didn’t know, if she was being quite honest, but she nodded nonetheless. 

He nodded in return, hesitating a moment more before leaving. Theo watched him, previous smiles and charm gone. In their place was a consummate investigator—calm, cool, calculating. Sighing, Draco murmured a goodnight to Hermione and left, striding off after the others.

Theo turned, offering Hermione his elbow. “Care to take a turn about the grounds with me?” he asked, voice pleasant and non-threatening. Hermione paused to collect herself before accepting.

They began walking, keeping close to the manor. Hermione observed Theo out of the corner of her eye. He was a rather objectively handsome man, she decided, if a bit unpredictable. 

“You know, Hermione,” he said, tilting his head toward her, as though he were about to share a secret. “I like you.”

She didn’t know how to react to that, so offered a small smile.

“I think you’re a good egg,” he continued. “And I enjoy eggs quite a bit. There are so many ways to enjoy such a simple food. Poached, fried, over easy, over hard, over medium, sunnyside up, hard scrambled, soft scrambled, baked, basted. And that’s not even getting into adding other ingredients, like you would with an omelette or frittata. Eggs are truly one of life’s best gifts, wouldn’t you agree, Hermione?”

Hermione, who had never been so confused in her life, merely nodded.

Theo smiled at her, patting her hand before continuing. “I need a good egg to help me with this investigation. Someone I can trust. Someone who knew Albus, knows this family, and had absolutely nothing to gain from his death.”

She felt a sinking feeling in her stomach as he continued, seemingly oblivious to her discomfort.

“The medical examiner at the DMLE is prepared to rule Albus’s death a suicide. But Harry—sweet, simple Harry—has requested that they wait forty-eight hours before releasing the report, in order to give us time to finish our investigation.”

“Why are you telling me this?” Hermione asked, heart pounding and palms sweaty.

“Because, my dear. You are a good egg. And you are going to help me.”

“I am?”

“You are. Tomorrow, Potts and Pans and I are going to search this house and these grounds,” he said, gesturing with his free arm to the darkened woods. “And _you_ are going to be by my side the entire time.”

She swallowed, thinking desperately for an excuse as to why she wasn’t available, but knowing she’d just end up puking on Theo’s shoes.

“Tomorrow is the will reading,” she finally managed, hoping her voice sounded normal.

“We’ll be finished in plenty of time for all that,” he returned, winking at her. “Now, will you allow me to escort you to the apparition point? We have a long day ahead of us tomorrow.”

Hermione nodded miserably, tuning out Theo’s inane chatter about omelette ingredients as they walked. Tomorrow was going to be a long day, indeed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My daughter's birthday is next week, so Chapter Five will post SATURDAY 10/3! Thank you for your understanding on the extra wait time. I promise it will be worth it!


	5. The Investigation

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hermione has to think on her feet as she joins the investigation into Albus Dumbledore's death.
> 
> The Black family is in for _quite_ a surprise when Albus's solicitor arrives to read his will.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Endless thanks, as always, to my alpha/beta team of [mightbewriting](https://archiveofourown.org/users/mightbewriting) and [granger_danger](https://archiveofourown.org/users/granger_danger), both of whom are ultra-talented writers and extremely knowledgeable people.

The air inside Rubeus Hagrid’s caretaker’s cottage was stuffy, whether from the fire roaring in the small hearth or the incessant panting of his monstrous dog, Harry couldn’t be sure. The close proximity of one Theo Nott didn’t help, either, making Harry’s tie feel too tight, his face too flushed.

Pansy stood at the large picture window, looking up toward the manor house. Its stone walls could be seen in the distance, star jasmine vines creeping up a trellis on one side. She had her “thinking” face on—lips pursed, brows furrowed, eyes narrowed.

Knowing she’d fill him in later, he turned, shifting closer to where Theo stood near Hagrid in front of a muggle television, fast forwarding through security footage of the night in question. Hagrid’s giant fingers mashed the buttons of the VCR, causing the image on the screen to shudder and the gears in the machine to squeal in protest.

“Is there a reason Albus couldn’t use, well...more magical means of surveillance?” Theo asked politely, frowning as Hagrid punched at a different button on the ancient muggle technology. The image on the screen froze, static dancing across the picture of the long gravel drive.

“Well I s’pose he could have,” Hagrid replied thoughtfully, tugging gently at his massive, wiry beard. “But he did it this way for me. On account of me not being able to do magic.”

Pansy turned from her self-appointed station at the window, brows raised. “Are you a Squib?”

Hagrid shook his head sadly. “No. Half giant, but my other half is wizard, alright. Got in some trouble in my younger years and—well. Got my wand snapped by the Ministry.” No sooner had he finished speaking than he promptly burst into tears, laying his massive head against Theo’s chest as he wailed. Theo patted his head, looking uncomfortable. Harry found the whole scene indescribably amusing.

The creaking of the front door interrupted his enjoyment, and a sudden rush of movement past his legs interrupted his balance as Fang bounded across the cottage to greet Hermione Granger. Despite being easily twice her size, Fang stopped gracefully in front of her, tail wagging furiously as she leaned over to scratch him behind his enormous ears.

“Hello, Fang,” she said, smiling. “Hello, everyone,” she added, lifting her eyes to take in the other occupants of the room, narrowing them in concern as she took in Hagrid’s shaking shoulders and Theo’s panicked expression. Giving Fang a final pat on the head, she edged around him, heading toward Hagrid and Theo.

“Hagrid?” she asked carefully, reaching out a hand to touch him gently on his shoulder. “Is everything alright?”

Hagrid pulled away from Theo long enough to rummage in one of his pockets, retrieving a handkerchief that could easily have been confused with a tablecloth and blowing his nose loudly into it. Theo grimaced, seizing the opportunity to stealthily move out of Hagrid’s reach.

“Oh, Hermione,” Hagrid wailed, “I’m sorry, dear. I was just telling these lovely investigators about how I had my wand snapped when I was younger. How Albus...Albus...gave me a job when no one else would even—” he broke off, dissolving once more into tears.

While Hermione comforted Hagrid, Harry took it upon himself to move to the ancient claw-foot stove, setting a kettle to boil and busying himself with the preparation of a cup of tea for the man.

He felt Theo behind him, close enough that the hair on the back of Harry’s neck lifted in the wake of Theo’s soft breath. “You’re doing it the muggle way,” he murmured near Harry’s ear.

Harry nodded. “I was raised by muggles.” He stole a glance over his shoulder, finding Theo’s brows lifted in surprise. “My parents were killed when I was a year old,” Harry added, unsure why he was offering up such personal information so freely. He didn’t share that part of his life with many people.

Theo smiled sadly, moving to stand next to Harry. “My mother died giving birth to me,” he said, voice barely audible over the boiling water in the tea kettle.

Harry felt a clutching sensation in his chest. Without thinking, he placed his hand on top of Theo’s where it rested on the countertop. For a moment, they were not investigators—they were just two people, sharing a loss that perhaps only the two of them truly understood.

Another honking blow into Hagrid’s handkerchief made Harry jump. He quickly removed his hand from Theo’s and began searching for a cup.

A few moments later, a steaming cup of chamomile tea in hand, Hagrid had calmed down considerably, chatting about his interest in magical creatures such as dragons and thestrals as he resumed his assault on the buttons of the VCR.

“Ah, here’s the night in question,” Hagrid announced, pointing at the screen as Hermione hovered near his shoulder. He pressed another button and the grainy video froze, causing him to curse underneath his breath.

Harry was about to offer his assistance, but Hermione beat him to it.

“Here, Hagrid,” she offered, moving to man the controls of the VCR. “I’m muggleborn, remember? I used one of these almost every day growing up.”

Hagrid smiled at her, face the picture of relief as Hermione pressed a button and the long graveled drive came into view, tree branches moving faster in the periphery as she began fast-forwarding.

Harry and the others crowded around the television, tension thick in the air as they waited for something, anything to appear on the screen, to reveal itself, to explain the unexplainable events of the night Albus died.

Suddenly, a terrible grinding noise filled the air, smoke billowing from the VCR as Hermione jumped back, gasping at the sight of sparks—followed closely by flames—licking at the device. Chaos briefly filled the cottage as all five of them rushed to save the tape, with Pansy finally wresting control of the situation with a well-placed _Aguamenti,_ putting out the fire with a dull hiss.

“Well done, Pans,” Theo offered, appearing simultaneously relieved that no one was hurt and exhilarated at the temporary peril.

Harry used his wand to gently extricate the tape from the mangled VCR, grimacing at the soaking wet plastic and melted film. Any information they could have gleaned from this tape was as good as gone.

< \------------------------------- >

Thirty minutes later, Hermione found herself walking through the sun-drenched forest with the investigators, ruined tape now shrunken down and stored securely in Harry Potter’s pocket. A little wordless, wandless magic from Hermione had ensured that the tape would be unsalvageable, but still—that had been too close for comfort. If they had seen her on that tape, circling back to the manor on the night Albus died—well, Theo probably wouldn’t think she was such a “good egg” after that.

Behind her, she heard the two Aurors speaking in low tones. Her ears pricked up when she heard Draco’s name, and she strained to hear what they were saying without appearing too interested.

So intensely was she eavesdropping on their conversation that she almost missed it. The wet, squelching sound of her boots in the mud proved to be her saving grace.

Cursing silently under her breath, she picked her foot up—with another wet, sucking sound as her boot came free—and saw the footprints. The footprints that matched the boots she was currently wearing. The footprints heading _toward_ the house, perfectly preserved from her trek the night of Albus’s party, starting at the gate near the road and stopping just where she was standing now, in the place where the mud ended and the moss-covered rocks of the forest floor began.

_Fuck._

She felt light-headed, heart beating fast within the cage of her chest, feet beginning to move before her brain could fully form a plan. Stepping quickly through the mud, making sure to step on as many as the old footprints as possible, she made her way toward the gate.

Behind her, she heard Theo make a surprised noise, knew he must have found the footprints. He called out her name, but she pretended not to hear, moving even more quickly down the path. Just a few more steps and she’d be done.

“Hermione!” Theo called again, voice too loud for her to pretend she couldn’t hear him any longer.

She turned, eyebrows raised in faux surprise, cupping one hand around her ear in a way that would have made her primary school drama teacher proud. Theo gestured at her, hands held up in the universal sign for “stop,” but she played dumb, continuing to stomp back toward the others, until there was no telling which of the footprints were fresh and which were old; which were coming and which were going.

“Did you need something?” she asked, coming to a stop in front of Theo. He grimaced, lips pulled back from his even, white teeth. Instead of answering, he pushed past her to move gingerly along the side of the path, careful not to step in the mud as he went.

“There were footprints here,” he said over his shoulder, and the air around Hermione shifted as Harry and Pansy moved quickly past her, trailing behind Theo. Hermione followed reluctantly, breathing slowly in an effort to feel as calm as she hoped she appeared.

“Someone came this way that night,” Pansy said, pulling a small black rectangle from the back pocket of her cigarette trousers. With a tap of her wand, the rectangle grew, transforming into a professional-looking camera, which Pansy used to take several rapid-fire photographs of the ground where they stood. Then she turned, striding quickly back the way they came, snapping more photographs as she walked.

Harry looked between Theo, who was inspecting the gate, and Pansy, disappearing amongst the trees of the forest. Gesturing for Hermione to follow him, he walked after Pansy. Theo brought up the rear, grumbling at the loss of another important piece of evidence.

“What’re you thinking, Pans?” Harry called to his partner, who was now standing near Hagrid’s cottage again, taking pictures of the manor.

“I noticed that trellis earlier,” she said, tilting her head toward the manor.

Hermione felt cracks form in her calm facade.

Pansy took off toward the manor at a brisk walk, long legs easily covering the distance between the edge of the woods and the main house. Harry and Theo followed once more, with Hermione trailing behind them reluctantly, hoping desperately that no one asked her about anything she’d need to lie about.

Behind them, Hagrid’s cottage door banged open and shut, and then Fang was rushing past them, bounding happily across the wide lawn with a stick in his mouth.

“Sorry ‘bout that!” Hagrid’s voice boomed. “He wants to play fetch with you, Hermione!”

She turned, waving kindly at the groundskeeper before calling Fang to her, beginning their usual game of keep-away with whatever object the enormous dog had chosen for fetch that day.

Today it was a splintered piece of wood, painted a lovely shade of mint green. A lovely, _familiar_ shade of mint green, Hermione realized, blood freezing in her veins as a memory flashed through her mind.

_Climbing up the trellis to the third floor trick window, her foot slipping, a piece of the trellis breaking off and falling to the lawn below._

She grasped the end of the “stick,” grimacing in disgust at the thick ropes of drool that covered it, making her hand slip.

“Give me the gods-damned _stick,_ Fang,” she hissed, wrenching it out of his mouth with a grunt. Lifting her arm, she used every bit of her childhood cricket training to hurl the stick as far as she could into the woods, watching Fang disappear in a blur of black fur as he chased it.

Turning, she jogged to catch up with the others, arriving at the base of the manor just as she heard Theo questioning the existence of the window at the top of the trellis.

“I don’t remember a window being there when we did our first inspection,” he said, squinting up toward the third floor. “That would be just outside Albus’s bedroom, wouldn’t it?” He turned to Hermione, who nodded weakly.

 _Fuck, fuck, fuck._ How many close calls was she expected to avoid in one day? If the events of the past week had actually been in one of Albus’s novels, she would have laughed them off as being too far-fetched.

Just as she thought this, Fang appeared at her knee, panting loudly and dropping the broken piece of trellis at her feet. She felt, rather than saw, Pansy and Harry’s attention shift to that damned piece of splintered wood, then back to the trellis it so obviously matched, then to the trick window located just outside the master suite.

“Well, well, well,” Theo said, and damn him if he didn’t sound like he was thoroughly enjoying himself. “Things have finally started looking up.”

< \------------------------------- >

Five minutes later, they were standing in the hallway outside Albus’s rooms, Theo carefully inspecting the hidden panel in the wall that opened to reveal a window.

He knelt, pitching forward on his hands and knees to crawl along the expensive rug Albus had imported from Turkey, its lovely shades of pale blue and green quite pleasing to the eye but doing rather little to hide several streaks of dried mud. Streaks that Hermione had not even thought to check for on the night Albus died.

Theo looked up at Harry and Pansy, engaging in some form of silent communication with the other two investigators. “Someone who didn’t want to be seen or heard climbed the trellis to the room that night,” he said, and Harry nodded in agreement. Pansy huffed out a breath, opening and closing her mouth several times, as though she wanted to speak but didn’t know exactly what to say.

Pushing to his feet, Theo turned to Hermione. “Will you join me in Albus’s rooms for a moment, please? I know it will be difficult, so I promise not to keep you much longer.”

She nodded, stepping carefully over the damning evidence on the rug to follow Theo into Albus’s sitting room.

Theo wandered idly about the room for a moment, during which Hermione looked around the space. It was exactly the same as she had last seen it, and yet everything had changed. Everything.

“I’ve been wondering, Hermione,” Theo’s voice broke into her thoughts. “Did you take your medical bag home with you on the night of the birthday party?”

“No. I never took it. I always left it just here,” she said, pointing to its assigned place.

“I see,” Theo said. “Did you know it was missing the morning Albus was found? When the Aurors arrived, they found no medical bag in this space. Odd, don’t you think?”

She nodded. That _was_ odd. No lying was required to say that she hadn’t taken it. But then...who had?

Theo continued his wandering, coming to a stop in front of the wizard’s chess set. He reached out, tapping the board gently with a finger. “Andromeda told us she came up to check on her father that night because she heard a loud noise. Albus told _her,_ and _you_ told us,” he paused, arching an eyebrow at Hermione, “that the sound she heard was this very chess board getting accidentally knocked over. Is that correct?”

She nodded again.

With a sudden rush of movement, Theo grasped the edge of the chessboard, flipping it up and over onto the carpeted floor of the sitting room.

It made not a single sound.

“Just as I suspected,” he said after a moment, breaking the charged silence.

Hermione opened her mouth to speak—although what she planned to say, she didn’t know—but was saved from herself by the frenzied barking of Fang, coming from the grounds below.

She and Theo moved toward the window simultaneously, watching in mild surprise as Fang barked, jumped, and snarled at the round figure of Pomona. The gardener was attempting to approach the front door, but was having a rather hard time getting around the bear-sized dog.

“Guess it’s time to go down for the will reading,” Theo said near her ear, his voice quiet but sharp.

Not trusting herself to speak, she nodded one final time, then turned and fled down the main stairs.

< \------------------------------- >

Harry and Pansy stood in the wake of Hermione’s mad rush out the door and down the stairs, shocked expressions on both their faces.

“That couldn’t have been easy,” Pansy said, and Harry was only a little surprised at how sympathetic Pansy sounded. “She was the last one to see him alive, and also saw him the morning he was found. Did you see the photographs of the scene?”

He nodded, and she shuddered, whispering, “It’s hard to see someone you love like that.”

Harry placed a comforting hand on her back, knowing she was talking about her own experience as much as Hermione’s.

She shot him a grateful smile. “Thanks, partner.”

Behind them, Theo exited the suite of rooms, eyes catching on Harry’s hand. He frowned, and Harry felt his heart rate increase, for reasons he wasn’t entirely prepared to examine. Not yet, anyway. This case had taken so many weird twists and turns that he needed as much focus as possible. Handsome, dashing, charismatic private investigators who liked to dress well and flirt with him could wait.

“Shall we go downstairs?” Harry asked, talking to Pansy but looking at Theo.

Downstairs, chaos reigned.

Lucius and Bellatrix were red-faced with anger, yelling directly into one another’s faces in the entry hall. Narcissa stood between them, one hand on each of their chests, staring at the ceiling as though a higher power might intervene and save her from their madness.

Andromeda was leaning against the staircase, head buried in her hands while Tonks—whose hair was a deep shade of purple today—rubbed her back and spoke quietly into her ear.

Draco sat in a Louis XIV chair near the door, surveying the scene with aloof amusement.

Hagrid, Pomona, and Rosmerta stood nearby, with Hermione just in front of them. They all looked supremely uncomfortable, but not at all surprised at the antics of Albus’s family.

“Everyone?” Harry began, but the volume of those assembled only increased. “Excuse me, everyone?”

Pansy raised two fingers to her mouth, letting out a shrill whistle that stopped the chaos in its tracks.

Harry nodded in thanks, then turned back to the family. “Listen, I know this is very difficult. But on behalf of the Department of Magical Law Enforcement, I’m going to have to ask all of you to stick close for a few more days. That means no leaving town, and making sure you’re all available for further questioning, if need be.”

The chaos resumed, with everyone—including Narcissa, Draco, and Tonks—pushing toward Harry, shouting questions of varying volume and hostility levels.

  
He was saved by the creaking of the front door, swinging wide to let in a gust of cold air and a blast of bright sunlight. Silhouetted in the doorway stood a woman, imposing in both stature and expression, staring at them all as if they were cockroaches, scrabbling about in the dirt, needing to be crushed under her practical boot.

  
She cast a haughty look around the room, which had finally fallen silent, narrowing her eyes at the scene before her. “I did try knocking,” she began, voice as severe as the headache-inducing chignon she had twisted her dark gray hair into. A hint of Scottish brogue colored her words. “But apparently you were not able to hear me.”

  
Narcissa was the first to recover. Smoothing the front of her plum-colored blouse, she stepped forward, offering her hand to the woman in the doorway. “Forgive us,” she said, shaking the stern woman’s hand firmly. “We are all having a hard time with my father’s passing. Obviously,” she added with a grimace.

  
“That must be the solicitor, here to read the will,” Theo whispered to Harry, the low pitch of his voice giving him the perfect excuse to stand closer than strictly necessary. Harry felt a shiver run through his body that had absolutely nothing to do with the icy air still swirling through the room.

  
“Madame Minerva McGonagall,” Pansy agreed, observing the older woman with something like admiration.

  
“Mmmmm,” Theo hummed. Pansy rolled her eyes.

  
Minerva sniffed at those assembled, conveying more condescension with a simple exhalation of air than she could have with any words.

  
“Where shall we do the reading?” she asked Narcissa, who sprang into action, barking orders to her family to assemble in the library and then gracefully ushering Minerva in that direction.

  
Harry, Pansy, and Theo trailed behind the group, moving to the back of the room to lean against a wall as the will was read. Harry stood between his partner and his...well...other partner, hands at his sides and eyes straight ahead.

  
Minerva pulled her wand out of a pocket in her dress, waving it at the leather portfolio she had set upon Albus’s desk. A charmed parchment unfurled from its interior, fluttering gently in the air as Minerva removed a small pair of wire-rimmed glasses from another pocket, placing them delicately on the tip of her long nose.

  
Clearing her throat, she spoke to Albus’s family and staff. “I don’t know if you are aware, but Albus visited me approximately one week before his death. During that visit, he altered the contents of his will. Before reading the will, he asked that I read this letter to you.”

  
She dug in yet another pocket of her voluminous skirts, removing a letter-sized piece of parchment with a flourish. She read:

  
_“My dearest family and friends,_

  
_Some of you may be surprised by the changes to my will. My intention in making these changes was not to divide, but rather to bring you together. Please trust that I am of sound of mind, body, and heart._

  
_Bellatrix, Andromeda, and Narcissa, you are what I am proudest of. I have been your father since you were girls, and every day I was able to spend with you was a true gift. I love you more than anything.”_

  
Minerva paused, looking up sharply as Andromeda choked back a sob, pressing her hands over her mouth to stifle the sound. To Harry’s surprise, it was Bellatrix who moved to comfort her sister, wrapping a bony arm around Andromeda’s shoulders and stroking her hair.

  
Nodding, Minerva resumed reading.

  
_“Nymphadora and Draco, the days you were born were the happiest days of my life. I raised your mothers, but didn’t get to share in the special joy of seeing them as babies, of watching them take their first steps, say their first words, use magic for the first time. I got to see you two do all those things, and my life was forever changed because of it.”_

  
Minerva paused for a moment, allowing the emotion to ebb and flow through the room. Harry looked around at the family members, all of whom—with the exception of Lucius, who looked as though he were either about to fall asleep or as though he had just smelled something truly foul—had tears in their eyes at Albus’s words. Even Pansy seemed moved at the sincerity of the old man’s final words to his family.

  
Harry felt a brush of skin against his hand, and looked down to find Theo’s pinky finger resting against his. Looking up, he met Theo’s eyes, feeling a charge of electricity at the point of contact between them. Theo said nothing, and in fact did nothing, other than upend Harry’s equilibrium by holding his hand steady against Harry’s.

  
Minerva began to speak once more, and Harry forced himself to look away from the hypnotic lure of Theo’s eyes.

  
_“The assets of Albus Percival Wulfric Brian Dumbledore are as follows: his manor home, located in Nottinghamshire, England, valued at 150 million galleons; his Gringotts vault, current contents reported at 60 million galleons; and his publishing company, Phoenix Publishing, currently valued at 500 million galleons.”_

  
Harry inhaled quietly at the astronomical figures Minerva read as though they were nothing; Albus had been a truly wealthy man.

  
Minerva continued, reading briskly, her tone brooking no room for discussion or nonsense.

  
_“To my groundskeeper and friend, Rubeus Hagrid, I bequeath his cottage on this property, for him to live in as long as he chooses, as well as a sum of 1 million galleons.”_

  
In his place on a magically-enlarged chair near a bookcase, Hagrid gasped, then immediately broke into loud wails. Theo shifted nervously, but at a stern glance from Minerva, Hagrid quieted, tears streaming silently into his beard.

  
_“To my gardener, Pomona Sprout, I bequeath the sum of 500,000 galleons.”_

  
Pomona nodded calmly, appearing grateful but otherwise unemotional.

  
_“To my housekeeper, Rosmerta, I bequeath my vacation cottage in the Cotswolds, in addition to a sum of 2 million galleons. May she never have to cook or clean for anyone but herself, ever again.”_

  
Rosmerta’s mouth fell open, seemingly overwhelmed at her employer’s generosity.

  
_“And finally, to my Healer, friend, and honorary granddaughter, Hermione Granger, I bequeath, in their entirety, all my remaining assets.”_

  
Minerva looked up from the parchment, removing her glasses with a flourish. “Any questions?”

  
She was met with stunned silence, the faces of everyone in the room frozen in shock.

  
The silence was broken first by Draco, who let out a rather inelegant guffaw, followed closely by Andromeda, who screeched loudly and then promptly fainted.

  
“Is that even legal?” Lucius demanded, sitting up straight for the first time since they’d all entered the library. “Can a mud—er, muggleborn even inherit from a wizard?”

“I assure you, it is perfectly legal,” Minerva snapped, glaring down her nose at him. “And the fact that you would suggest that I would be involved in anything illegal, _Mr. Malfoy,_ offends me deeply.”

Lucius had the decency to look sheepish.

“Alright, I think everyone needs to leave,” Narcissa stood, motioning about the room, although not at anyone in particular. “This is a family matter, and the family needs a moment to discuss this—this shock.”

“You little bitch,” Bellatrix spat, and Harry watched Narcissa spin on her heel, eyes blazing and lips curling away from her teeth, prepared to give her older sister a piece of her mind. But Bellatrix stood, pushing past Narcissa to stalk toward Hermione, pointing a finger right in her face.

“Did you sleep with him?” she snarled, spittle flying from between her bared teeth with the force of her anger. “Did you fuck my 90 year old father and convince him to change his will?”

“No!” Hermione cried, leaning back in her seat, trying to escape Bella’s venom. Her face was twisted in shock, the blood draining from it at Bellatrix’s horrific suggestion.

“Aunt Bella,” Tonks began, standing and placing a hand on her aunt’s shoulder. “You know Hermione. She would never—”

“I don’t know a fucking thing!” Bellatrix reminded Harry of a wounded animal—eyes wide and rolling, teeth bared, backed into a corner and prepared to fight her way out. She pushed away Tonks’s hand, then shoved her own hand into her pocket, drawing her wand—dark, curved, like the talon of a raptor—and brandishing it at Hermione.

Hermione stood, backing toward the door. “I swear, I had no idea about Albus changing his will. I would have told him I didn’t want any of it—”

“Oh don’t be stupid, girl,” Lucius drawled, standing to join Bellatrix, two predators stalking their prey. “No one would turn down that kind of money.”

Tonks and Narcissa stood together, hands held, watching in mute disbelief as Hermione continued to back out of the room. At their feet, Andromeda was still passed out cold.

Harry had seen just about enough. “Listen, everyone, I think you all need to calm down and approach this in a rational manner. Threatening someone who—” he broke off as Bellatrix rounded on him, a feral cat hissing in fury.

Just as she opened her mouth to unleash what was sure to be an awful string of curses—both magical and non-magical—Harry watched as three things happened:

First, Hagrid blew his nose loudly into his enormous handkerchief, which made roughly the same sound as a foghorn warning off a boat that wandered too close to shore.

Second, Theo stepped in front of Harry, his own wand pointed directly between Bellatrix’s eyes, looking angry for the first time in their acquaintance.

And third, Draco stood abruptly, crossed the room in two long strides, and—clasping Hermione’s hand in his—pulled her out the door.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Dun dun DUNNNNNN! I'd love to hear your thoughts and reactions in the comments! 
> 
> Chapter Six will post on SATURDAY 10/17.


	6. The Escape

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Draco helps Hermione hide from his family members, who are already plotting to get their inheritance back.
> 
> The idiots to lovers needle swings so far in the direction of lovers that it just gives up and breaks.
> 
> Hermione receives another shock, sending the case in a whole new direction.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please enjoy this nice, long chapter...a few days early!
> 
> Note that the rating has changed from M to E, and the tags have been updated.
> 
> As always, I have to give so much credit to this story's alpha, the fabulous [mightbewriting](https://archiveofourown.org/users/mightbewriting); and beta, the incomparable [granger_danger](https://archiveofourown.org/users/granger_danger), who spent an inordinate amount of time discussing tears, erections, breasts, and scones in this chapter. And another BIG thank you to [PacificRimbaud](https://archiveofourown.org/users/PacificRimbaud) who was kind enough to do a final read to allay my crippling self-doubt.

It was a surreal experience, having Draco Malfoy pull her by the hand through the halls of Albus’s manor, leading her out the front door and down the graveled path she had traveled so many times before. Of all the times she’d imagined holding his hand, this scenario—her a newly-made heiress at the expense of his family, their angry shouts ringing in her ears—had never been in the rotation.

They made it to the apparition point in record time. Hermione barely had a moment to catch her breath before Draco’s face was near hers, deadly serious as he asked, “Do you trust me?”

She nodded, and his hand found hers again, clamping down tightly as they spun away into thin air.

They landed hard, the bones in her knees jarring together painfully and making her stumble. Draco’s hand was there, pulling her forward into a brisk walk, not allowing her time to stop and get her bearings before disappearing into a crowd of people on a narrow, cobbled street.

A narrow, cobbled, _familiar_ street.

“Draco?” she asked, still being towed along in his wake. “Where are we?”

He glanced back at her, an unreadable expression on his face. “York.”

She looked up at the buildings on either side of the road, recognizing their close-crowded brick and stone facades. _The Shambles._ She had been here before, visited with her parents when she was a young girl. She planted her feet, stopping their forward momentum and barely avoiding being knocked into by the people behind them.

“Let me see if I follow your logic,” she said, allowing Draco to guide her off the main path. “You ‘rescued’ me from your family’s wrath...but then brought me to arguably one of the most popular tourist destinations in Britain?”

He frowned. “What is a ‘tourist destination?’”

“Look around, Draco. There are hundreds of muggles here. This isn’t exactly a good place to lay low.”

“Agree to disagree. Yes, there are hundreds of muggles. But as far as I can see, there are only two wizards—well, one wizard and one witch.”

She opened her mouth to argue, but nothing came out. He was right, damn him.

He smirked. “None of my family would be caught dead here. It’s literally one of the last places they’d even think to look.”

“Then how did _you_ know about it?”

“Granddad,” he answered. “We visited a few times when I was younger. It was the first place I thought of when we fled the manor.”

She let out a heavy sigh, finally allowing herself to relax for the first time since Minerva had read the contents of Albus’s will. To her horror, she felt tears fill her eyes, and blinked quickly to banish them.

“Come on,” Draco said, holding out his hand once more. “There’s a decent muggle tea shop just up ahead.”

Not bothering to ask why he knew anything about muggle tea shops, she took his hand and let him lead her away.

Thirty minutes later, they found themselves seated in a cozy U-shaped booth, the air humid and warm. There were a few other muggle patrons, but no one paid them any mind.

Draco spread a glob of strawberry jam across a warm, buttery scone, then topped it with a generous helping of clotted cream. Then, rather than taking a bite, as she fully expected him to do, he placed the scone on one of the plates, pushing it across the floral-patterned tablecloth towards her.

“You look exhausted. Eat.”

She frowned, but had to admit he was right. She _was_ exhausted. And hungry.

She took a large bite of the scone, eyes closing briefly in ecstasy at the delicious blend of flavors on her tongue. When she opened them again, it was to find Draco watching her with a curious expression on his face. 

He leaned toward her, steepling his hands on the table in front of him. 

“Okay seriously, Granger. What the hell?”

She blinked. “What?”

“Why did my grandfather leave everything to you?”

She narrowed her eyes. Here she had been feeling thankful for his help, and he’d just been patiently waiting to spring his own interrogation on her?

“I don’t know. But I think it had more to do with _you_ than with me. Albus always talked about wanting you—all of you—to take risks, to build something of your own without his help. Without a safety net.”

She paused, pouring herself a cup of tea and taking another large bite of scone. A bit of clotted cream clung to her lower lip, and she noticed Draco’s attention narrowing to her mouth as her tongue darted out to lick it away. 

He shook his head as though to clear it, then prepared his own cup of tea. He selected a scone from the platter, piling it with heaps of jam and cream. Hermione finished hers as he worked, and was surprised when he reached over, sliding the freshly slathered scone onto her plate. 

“Oh no, I—” she began, falling silent when he held up a hand. 

“I insist,” he said softly. 

She sighed. “Look, I hope you know I didn’t ask Albus for anything. He paid me well, and I have most of my earnings saved in a small Gringotts vault. I don’t wear expensive clothes or have an extravagant lifestyle—”

“I know, Granger.” His voice was calm. “You don’t have to defend yourself to me. I’m not Bellatrix. Or my father,” he added, eyes going dark. 

“I don’t even want the inheritance,” she continued, taking another large bite of her scone. She chewed thoughtfully, washing it down with a sip of tea before speaking again. “Maybe I could give it back to your family? Or just tell that McGonagall woman that I don’t accept?”

“You will do no such thing,” Draco said, more serious than she’d ever seen him. “He wanted you to have it, and you shall. Besides,” he added, “Bellatrix and Andromeda don’t deserve a sickle. My mother is another story, but she’s got her own company— she’ll be fine. My father would just piss it all away, anyhow. And you’re right. _Granddad_ was right. Nymphadora and I need to figure life out on our own.”

They sat in silence for a while, chewing quietly and sipping their tea. 

“Do you know he told me he had changed his will?” Draco finally said, tracing his finger around the rim of his teacup. 

She shook her head. 

“The night of the party. When we had our disagreement about him giving me my inheritance. He told me there was no inheritance, because he’d changed his will. He didn’t mention he’d left it to you—just said that it wasn’t going to anyone in the family. I didn’t tell the investigators.”

Hermione was unsure what to say to that. It was quite the predicament, sitting at a cozy booth with a handsome man whose wealthy grandfather had just left her everything—including what was rightfully his. 

“I was so angry at first,” he continued, gazing out the window, seemingly lost in his memories. “I said horrible things to him, stormed out of the house, apparated to a pub and drank myself into a light stupor.” He blinked, and she saw the tears hovering just on the edge of his lower lashes. 

Reaching across the small tabletop, she placed her hand on top of his. He surprised her by flipping his hand palm-up, interlacing their fingers. 

“After a few hours, I felt better. Less angry. Like I had nothing left to lose. It was actually rather freeing. I just wish I wouldn’t have left. Wish I would’ve been able to say I was sorry, tell him that I loved him—”

He broke off again, dropping his gaze to his lap as he struggled with his emotions. 

Hermione scooted around the bend of the booth’s padded bench, wrapping her free hand around the back of his neck and pulling his head down to rest on her shoulder. He went willingly, releasing his grip on her hand to slide both arms about her waist, face buried in her neck and shoulders shaking beneath her fingers as he had himself a proper cry. 

“Draco, he knew how you felt about him,” she soothed, trying her best to suppress a shiver at the feel of his mouth so close to the sensitive skin of her neck. “And he loved you. Before I left that night, one of the last things we talked about was how alike the two of you were.”

He choked on a sob, clutching her even tighter.

She rubbed one hand slowly up and down his back, stroking the notches of his spine over and over until he quieted. He pulled back, looking sheepish when a bit of her hair stuck to his lip. 

“Forgive me, Hermione,” he said quietly.

“For what? Expressing love for your grandfather? Regret? Grief? All of those are perfectly normal, healthy emotions, Draco.”

He met her gaze. Their arms were still twined about one another, noses almost touching. This close, she could see he had tiny flecks of pale blue in his otherwise stone gray eyes. She inhaled shakily; his arms tightened infinitesimally. 

“You’re right, as usual. But that is not actually what I meant.”

And then he was pulling her even closer, pressing a gentle, sweet, much too chaste kiss to her cheek, right at the corner of her mouth. He pulled back slowly, brushing her hair back from her forehead with a gentle hand. She felt her eyes widen in shock, her heart slam into her ribs, her skin prickle with heat and awareness.

At the sound of a throat being cleared—loudly and intentionally—Hermione jumped, flushing to the roots of her hair as she took in the proprietor of the tea shop standing in front of them, a knowing smirk on her face.

She tried to pull back from Draco, but he held on stubbornly, looking down the length of his aristocratic nose at the muggle woman. He opened his mouth, and Hermione braced herself for a withering set-down, but instead what came out was—

“I do apologize madam. My wife and I got quite carried away. May we please have another pot of tea and two more of those delicious scones? I’d also love to purchase a few jars of that heavenly strawberry jam. Actually,” he chuckled, deploying the full force of his devastating smile, “is it possible to buy a case? I would love to gift some to my mother...and your mother too, darling.” He nuzzled his nose into the hair at Hermione’s temple.

“How lovely,” the proprietor said, thoroughly charmed. She bustled off to fulfill his request, leaving the two of them quite alone again.

Hermione pressed her fingers to her lips, still tingling from his almost-kiss. His eyes dropped to her mouth, laser focused, but then he pulled back, releasing his hold on her.

“Is—is that what you were apologizing for?” she asked, breathless.

He met her eyes again, his own suddenly filled with regret. “No. I’ve wanted to do that for a very long time. I thought I’d best do it while I still had the chance.”

She frowned at him, confused. “Why wouldn’t you have the chance?”

“Because of what I’m about to do.”

Her heart, which had been pounding in her chest with surprised—albeit delighted—ardor, lurched suddenly. “What are you talking about, Draco?”

He smiled sadly. “I know three things for sure. One, lying makes you puke. Two, you just ate two enormous scones with strawberry jam and clotted cream, in addition to several cups of tea.”

Her stomach gurgled unhelpfully. “And three?”

“And three.” He leaned into her space again, face close to hers. “My grandfather didn’t commit suicide, nor was he murdered. And only _you_ know what really happened to him.”

Her vision narrowed, blacking out around the edges. “What?” she managed, sucking in a deep lungful of air.

“Tell me what happened that night.” His voice was quiet. Calm. If he had been angry, or threatened her, she would have stood and ran, bolted out the door of this muggle tea shop and down into the late afternoon crowds of the street below.

She debated lying for less than a fraction of a second, but knew—as he had so brilliantly planned, the cunning arse—that she would immediately vomit up the scones he had so kindly and generously prepared for her. Instead she took another steadying breath, hands twisting together in her lap as she asked, “How did you know?”

He smiled, the only acknowledgement of her admission. “Remember the day of the Auror interviews? When Auror Parkinson found us in the library and told me to leave?” 

She nodded.

“I didn’t leave,” he admitted. “I hid in the parlor next to the library. There is a vent there that connects the two rooms, and you can hear everything being said. I was listening to see if they’d ask you anything about me, see what you’d say in response—” he stopped speaking abruptly, cheeks flushing. “I heard everything you said. Heard you running down the hall after what seemed to be a quite normal interview. I was curious, so I followed you. And then...I heard you throwing up in the bathroom.”

She swallowed, mouth dry and stomach roiling. “Why didn’t you tell the investigators? You knew I was lying about what happened that night.”

He gave a humorless snort. “Despite behavior that would indicate otherwise, I admire you, Hermione. I believe that you’re a good person. An honorable one. I know you wouldn’t do anything to harm my grandfather on purpose—right?”

She nodded again, feeling as though she’d been trapped in some sort of fever dream. 

“Now,” he said, inclining his head toward her. “Tell me what happened. And then I’ll help you.” 

< \------------------------------- >

Things had calmed down in the hours since McGonagall had thrown a Weasley’s Wildfire Whiz-Bang into the Black family’s midst, upending their expectations. 

No bickering, screaming, or threats of revenge on “upjumped muggleborn Healers who managed to steal an entire family’s inheritance” could be heard. 

Yet the tension remained, festering among the Blacks. Harry, Pansy, and Theo were doing their best to maintain order, but it was a near thing.

Everyone had moved into the drawing room, which had more surfaces available for fainting, lying down, or just sitting dejectedly, as most of the family was currently doing.

“How can this be happening?” Andromeda moaned, reclining dramatically against the cushions of a sofa. Nymphadora stood near her mother, alternating between patting her on the hand and drinking deeply from a tumbler of firewhiskey.

“It’s all that Granger girl’s fault,” Lucius said, mouth pursed so tightly that it reminded Harry of a cat’s arsehole. “She was raised by muggles. Everyone knows they’re a bunch of thieves and rapists.”

“Did you know that _I_ was raised by muggles, Mr. Malfoy?” Harry asked, stepping closer to the pale wanker. He took immense pleasure in the shifty, guilty look that crossed the older man’s face.

“Do you know _why_ I was raised by them?” Harry continued softly, staring down at Lucius until he dropped his gaze, uncomfortable and angry. “Because my real parents were murdered. Murdered when I was a baby, asleep in my crib. Murdered by insane followers of a cult leader named Tom Riddle, whom my Auror father sent to Azkaban.”

Lucius blanched; Harry bared his teeth.

“Does that name ring a bell, Mr. Malfoy? His followers were called the Death Eaters, and if I’m not mistaken, _your_ father was one of them. So I’d probably be more careful about disparaging other people’s parents, if I were you.”

Harry turned his back on the family and stalked out of the room, sparing a small nod for Pansy on his way.

He wandered down the hall, toward the conservatory overlooking the back lawns. Behind him, he heard the drawing room door open and shut, quick footsteps sounding down the hallway behind him.

Harry kept going, wrenching open the door into the conservatory and stepping gratefully into its fragrant warmth and humidity. He sighed, unsurprised to feel the sting of tears. Almost twenty-five years did little to dull the hurt or unfairness of growing up without his parents.

The sound of a hand connecting with the conservatory door, preventing it from closing, made Harry turn. Expecting Pansy, he was surprised to find Theo in the doorway, face flushed and breath sawing in his chest.

“Your parents,” he panted, dark hair falling across his damp forehead as he stepped into the room, the door swinging shut behind him. “They were killed by Death Eaters?”

Harry nodded, eyes drawn like magnets to the hollow of Theo’s throat, newly exposed by Theo shedding his tie and loosening his collar.

“My father,” he continued, stepping toward Harry, no hint of mischief or teasing on his face. “My father—I hated him, my whole life. He was cruel, and abusive, and I have not mourned him a single day since he died. And he was also— _also_ —a Death Eater.”

His face was tense with regret, hands fidgeting nervously as Harry absorbed his words. 

“I’m so sorry, Harry,” he was saying. “I didn’t know about your parents, about why they were killed. Your dad was a bloody hero, and your mum—”

Harry moved quickly, grabbing Theo by the shoulders and pulling him into a firm hug. After a second of shock, Theo reciprocated, arms closing tightly around Harry’s middle.

They stood—two broken boys taking comfort from one another—as their breathing calmed and heart rates slowed. Harry moved first, raising his head from its resting place on Theo’s shoulder, lifting his eyes the short distance to Theo’s. 

Instead of stepping away, as Harry thought he would, Theo’s tightened his grip. “I’m sorry,” he whispered again, voice tortured as he searched Harry’s face.

“Theo, I—you don’t have to apologize. You had nothing to do with it,” Harry whispered back.

“But _my_ family is associated with the horrible thing that happened to your family.” His hands clutched at the fabric of Harry’s shirt beneath his jacket.

“You aren’t your father,” Harry said. “If I know anything about you, it’s that you are a good man. An insane man, but a good one.”

Theo smiled, a faint glint of his usual mischievousness returning to his eyes. “More insane than you, delivering that lecture to Lucius Malfoy?”

Harry smirked. “Liked that, did you?”

“You have no bloody idea.”

“I might have some,” Harry murmured, feeling bold enough to press his body more closely to Theo’s. He watched Theo’s eyes widen first in surprise, then in desire.

“My, my, Pott,” he said, licking his lips. “Who would have thought a bit of righteous fury followed by some genuine sadness would have this effect on us?” 

“Quite honestly, Nott,” Harry returned. “You’ve been having this effect on me since the day I met you.”

Theo hummed, the sound vibrating through his chest and into Harry’s. “Well, if we’re being honest,” he said, dropping his chin. “I’ve wanted to do this for just as long.”

And then Theo’s lips were on his, hands tenderly cradling his jaw. He gasped when he felt Theo’s tongue slid along the seam of his lips, and Theo took advantage of his open mouth to suck gently at his bottom lip, fingers sliding into his hair. Harry had just clutched Theo tighter to him, moaning softly and deepening the kiss, when the conservatory door burst open, sending them flying apart.

“Oh,” Pansy said, simultaneously unsurprised and amused. “So sorry about that, lads. Listen, I hate to interrupt— _truly_ —but I could really use your assistance back in the drawing room.”

“Indeed,” Theo said, discreetly adjusting the front of his trousers.

“Be right there, Pans,” Harry added, cheeks flushing.

She granted them both a knowing look, then flounced back the way she came, making sure to leave the door open.

Harry started to follow, but stopped at the sound of Theo’s voice saying his name.

“Harry?”

He turned, one eyebrow raised, heartbeat still tripping wildly in his chest.

“This isn’t over,” Theo said, and Harry nodded. It certainly wasn’t—not the investigation, and certainly not whatever _this_ was.

Back in the drawing room, Andromeda was shouting across the desk at Minerva. “This is preposterous, madam! I depend on the money from my father—would be positively destitute without it. Is there any way to get the will reversed?” 

“I’m afraid that is not possible, Mrs. Tonks,” Minerva replied, peering over the top of her spectacles at the _true_ spectacle of Andromeda Black Tonks.

From a chair near the window, Bellatrix spoke, for the first time since staring down the business end of Theo’s wand. “What about the slayer rule?” 

Harry frowned. 

“The slayer rule?” Narcissa repeated, lifting her head from her hands to stare at her older sister. 

“Indeed. If the inheritor is found responsible for the death of the person who wrote the will, then said will is void. They wouldn’t be able to inherit, would they?” She turned, eyes narrowing at Minerva. 

“In theory, yes that is correct. Murderers are not allowed to inherit. But as Albus committed suicide—”

“He didn’t,” drawled Theo. 

“Even so,” continued Minerva, unfazed by Theo’s interruption, “the only way Miss Granger would not inherit is if she was responsible for his death.”

“She must be!” Andromeda cried, leaping to her feet. “She was the last one to see him alive—she’s responsible for all his medications—how easy it would be for her to ‘accidentally’ give him the incorrect dosage!”

“Oh that is _quite_ enough, Andi,” Narcissa snapped. “We’re all surprised and upset, but please don’t embarrass me or this family by immediately turning on Hermione. She loved Father, and took wonderful care of him. That’s more than could be said for any of us.” She stood, pacing the length of the drawing room, appearing agitated.

“Mum,” Tonks’s voice was calm, but cautious. It sounded to Harry as if she were speaking to a small child rather than her mother. “If Granddad wanted Hermione to have the money, then shouldn’t she have it?”

Andromeda turned to her daughter, cupping one cheek in her hand. “Nymphie, you dear, sweet fool.” She smiled regretfully at her daughter as Tonks pulled away, hurt. “I’m sorry, darling, but you need to think. If we don’t get our inheritance, I won’t be able to pay for you to finish your university program, our bills, any of our other _expenses—”_ she broke off, pressing her lips together as she looked wildly about the room. 

Harry wondered if there had ever been a more opportune time for some DROM health and wellness.

< \------------------------------- >

In York, the sun was setting, a fiery ball on the horizon that could just be seen out the window of the tea shop. Draco paid their bill and gathered his case of jam (which he immediately shrunk and pocketed once out of the eyesight of the proprietor). Together they made their way up a nearby street, headed toward the gothic spires of the York Minster.

They walked in silence for a few minutes, until Draco seemed unable to hold his tongue a moment longer. “You know,” he said, a sad smile on his face. “In our final argument, my grandfather told me that you could beat him at wizard’s chess. I always thought I was the only one who could do that.”

She returned his smile with one of her own, feeling awkward and shy after her confession—not to mention their almost-kiss, which neither of them had spoken of (nor tried to repeat) since.

“I am quite good at wizard’s chess,” she admitted. “I beat him that night, as well. Well, I would have, had he not had a flair for the dramatic and kicked over the chess board before I could put his King in check. That’s when he—he knocked over the potion bottles and I—” she broke off, voice caught on a sob.

His arm came around her shoulders. “It was an accident, Hermione. A terrible mistake. I believe that he told you to do all the things you did afterward, and not only because you can’t lie. I just—believe you.”

She looked up at him, his form blurred through the sheen of her tears.

“I’m not going to tell my family. Or the Aurors. Or Theo, the wanker.” He sighed, pulling her a bit tighter against his side. “This is what my grandfather wanted.”

“Why are you being so nice to me?” The question was genuine—she couldn’t imagine being in his shoes, finding out someone she knew—someone who had just inherited everything—was also responsible for the death that had set everything in motion.

He opened his mouth. Closed it. Thought for a moment, then answered. “I told you—I believe you to be a good person. I also care enough for you that I don’t want you to end up in Azkaban for a simple mistake.”

“A mistake,” she repeated numbly. “Someone _died,_ Draco. Someone we both loved very much.”

He sighed, pressing his eyes closed. “I know.”

“Listen, if you do really want to help me, I must insist on giving you your inheritance. There is no possible way I can accept all that money, and it’s only right that it goes to you.”

He was quiet a moment before answering. “Alright. But I hope you know I’d help you anyway. Even if you didn’t give me a single knut.”

She nodded.

They arrived at their destination, a cozy bed and breakfast that the tea shop woman had suggested. It was a small, Victorian brick building, set in a row of small, Victorian brick buildings, only distinguishable by a sign in the window that read “The York Rose.”

Inside the lobby, an elderly man sat behind a desk, his feet propped on a footstool. A scruffy dog napped on a rug near the hearth, back legs kicking gently as it dreamed.

Draco approached the desk, smiling politely. “Good evening, sir. My, uh, sister and I require rooms for the night.”

The man sat up straight, eyeing both of them suspiciously. “Your sister, eh?”

Draco nodded.

“Well, lucky she’s your sister then, because we only have one room available. You’ll need to share, but I’m sure you’re used to that by now. What with her being your _sister,_ and all.” He cracked a smile, as cunning as any Slytherin.

Caught in a trap of his own making, Draco nodded. “Quite. That will do nicely.”

Hermione smothered a laugh, standing off to the side as Draco paid the man and pocketed the key to their shared room. She trailed behind him as he headed up the narrow staircase at the back of the lobby, not letting herself think too much about how she was going to be spending the night in the same room as him. 

As they finally reached their door Draco turned, hand coming up to massage the muscles along the back of his neck. “I’m sorry we have to share a room,” he said, eyes looking everywhere but her. “I hope it won’t make you too uncomfortable.”

“No, it’s—it’s fine,” she answered.

He turned to the door, placing the key in the lock and opening it. He took two steps inside and froze, hissing out a forceful “Fuck!” as Hermione bumped into his back.

“Oh, I’m really sorry! Did I hurt you?” she asked, immediately stepping away and grimacing at her inattention to where she was going.

“No. That’s not why I cursed,” he replied over his shoulder, stepping aside so she could see the interior of their room. “ _That_ is.”

“Oh.” Hermione’s eyes widened. _“Oh.”_

Across the expanse of the hardwood floors, over the top of a faded rug, and stretching the width of an entire wall of the room, stood a bed. An enormous, four-poster, canopied, _solitary_ bed. 

“Maybe there’s another one through there?” Hermione suggested, gesturing half-heartedly through the door that she was sure led to an en-suite bathroom.

Draco stalked toward the other door, disappearing and then reappearing through it in a matter of seconds. “No.”

She shrugged, deciding there was no need for pretense. “Well, this is awkward.”

His eyes shot to hers, face going blank for a moment before he burst out laughing. 

She felt the corners of her mouth turn up, and then she was joining him, giggling at the ridiculous string of bad luck she’d had over the past twenty-four hours.

Their laughter soon died, and Draco—seemingly eager to prevent the awkwardness from returning—offered to pop out for some takeaway dinner. She agreed, eager to shower while she had a modicum of privacy in their shared quarters.

No sooner had the door shut behind him than she pulled off her clothes, laying them out carefully on the bed and casting a quick but thorough _Scourgify_ on her undergarments. She headed into the bathroom, turning on the shower and using the time while the water heated to inspect the small shampoo and conditioner bottles provided by the hotel, wishing there were toothbrushes and toothpaste as well.

She had one second of warning when she heard the door to their room open and Draco say, “Hermione? Did you want me to pick up some toothbrushes while I’m—” before he was standing in front of the open doorway to the bathroom, mouth falling open, eyes glued to her rather bare breasts.

She dropped the shampoo bottle she’d been holding, turning quickly to grab a towel from the rack over the toilet and inadvertently giving Draco a view of her rather bare arse, as well. 

Once the towel was secure, she spun to face him. She thought her particular shade of beet red blush probably matched his, although she couldn’t know for sure, as he’d turned his back and covered his face with both hands.

“Gods, Granger,” he said, voice muffled and hoarse. “Please forgive me. I didn’t see—well, I _did_ see, of course, but I didn’t—that is, I shouldn’t—not that you have anything to be ashamed of, of course, quite the opposite, in fact, but—” 

“It’s okay, Draco,” she interrupted, sure that if she didn’t say something he’d stand there stammering all night.

“Right. Indeed. I’ll just leave and er, get dinner. Alright, here I go,” he said, and—with his eyes firmly closed—he turned and walked quickly in the direction of the door, only stumbling once before leaving.

She showered quickly. By the time Draco returned, she was dressed and sitting primly at a small table. They ate in awkward silence, conversation stilted by the fact that Draco now had an approximate idea of what Hermione’s nipples looked like.

Hermione offered to do the cleaning up while Draco took his own shower, and spent the next fifteen minutes vanishing one piece of leftover food and plastic utensil at a time. 

This wasn’t due to lack of skill on her part, but rather from a fierce need to keep her mind occupied—to prevent herself from fixating on what Draco’s wet, muscular, _nude_ form looked like as he stood under the shower’s spray.

When he finally exited the bathroom, hair and skin still damp, Hermione jumped. She was embarrassed at her train of thought, as well as angry at herself for objectifying him—especially since he’d been a perfect gentleman for most of the day. 

Scones and confessions under duress notwithstanding. 

Draco wore a thin, tight-fitting white undershirt and dark gray trousers. His Oxford and tie rested neatly over one arm. His feet were bare. He smiled nervously at her, moving to the chair to drape his clothing over the back. 

She stepped out of his way, backing into one of the posts of the bed. “Um, which side did you want to sleep on?” she asked, trying desperately to keep her voice light.

His eyes shot to the bed, hands clenching against his thighs. “Oh. I don’t have a preference. You may choose whichever side would make you more”—he swallowed loudly—“comfortable.”

She nodded, turning and clambering up onto the high bedframe, moving backwards until she rested against the pillows at the head.

Draco came around the other side of the bed, stepping up gracefully to sit beside her. The bed was large enough that there was actually quite a bit of space between them, so—providing that neither of them moved much as they slept—the night may not be as awkward as Hermione was imagining. 

Well, aside from the fact that he had seen her naked not more than two hours earlier. And she had thought about him naked just now. And he had sort of kissed her in the tea shop, before making her tell him the truth about accidentally killing Albus and then promising to help her. And telling her he believed her, and thought she was a good person, and—

“Would you like to watch some telly?” she asked, surprised that her voice came out only slightly higher-pitched than normal. She gestured at the muggle set on a low dresser across the room, then summoned the remote control.

“I suppose,” Draco said, not looking at her.

She clicked the power button, navigating the channels until she landed on a familiar film— _The Fugitive._

“Oh,” she breathed, taken by surprise at the burst of aching sadness that bloomed in her chest as the familiar scenes played on the television. The remote control slipped numbly from her fingertips, clattering to the floor and drawing Draco’s sharp gaze.

“Hermione? What’s wrong?” he asked, leaning toward her.

“This—this was one of Albus’s favorite movies. One of the only muggle movies he enjoyed, come to think of it. We’d watch it at least once a month,” she said, eyes misting. She felt her lower lip begin to tremble and bit down hard on it, but it was no use. The first of her tears had already spilled over her lashes, sliding slowly down her cheeks.

She pulled her knees up to her chest, dropping her forehead against them as her shoulders began to shake. 

But then Draco’s hands, warm and strong, were touching her shoulders, angling her body toward him, pulling her head into his chest. His arms came around her and she gripped them tightly, steadying herself with the feel of him. His lips moved gently over her hair, her forehead, her eyelids, pressing whisper-soft kisses against her skin that soothed her broken heart.

As they sat, entwined in one another’s warmth and comfort, Hermione’s grief gradually lessened, giving way to something different. 

Desire.

This wasn’t new information to her, not at all, but the idea that he might feel the same way, too—that he had perhaps wanted her for as long as she wanted him— _was_ new. And here they were, thrown together by fate and circumstance, sharing a room, a bed, an embrace.

She lifted her head, meeting his concerned gaze. Something in her eyes must have told him how she was feeling—what she was thinking—because he inhaled sharply, eyes going hot. He searched her face frantically before tightening his grip on her, pulling her more firmly against him, and lowering his mouth to hers.

When their lips met, her body ignited. Her hands slid over his shoulders, up the strong lines of his neck and jaw, into his bright hair. He sighed against her mouth and she opened to him, closing her eyes and whimpering softly against his lips as she felt the first tentative touch of his tongue against her own. 

The kiss, so sweet and gentle to begin with, a small spark in a dry forest, suddenly blazed to life, burning through Hermione’s nerve endings with the force of an inferno. His tongue invaded her mouth and her senses, diving deep, demanding reciprocation. His hands were everywhere—tangling in her hair, gently caressing her throat, clutching at her waist, boldly dropping to grip the curve of her bottom. The sounds he made—soft grunts and whimpers, deep inhales and greedy moans—spurred Hermione to previously undiscovered heights of feeling. 

She pushed up onto her knees, using her temporary height advantage to press him back against the pillows, lifting one leg to straddle his body as her mouth explored his throat, his jawline, his collarbone. He returned the favor, pulling her forward to suck a kiss against her neck that had her eyes rolling back in her head.

She whimpered and he pulled back, searching her face. “Is this too much?” His expression was tender, concerned. “It’s too much, isn’t it? And too soon. We should probably stop.” His hands clutched her hips tighter, at odds with his sensible words.

Hermione didn’t feel like being sensible.

“Do you want me, Draco?” she asked, lowering herself onto his lap to find that yes, he did very much want her, indeed.

He groaned softly as she pressed against him, head falling back onto the pillows. “Yes,” he answered simply.

“I want you, too.”

His hands left her hips, stroking gently up her spine. He lifted his head. “I just don’t want to do something you might regret.”

“Would you regret it?” she asked, and his eyes went steely. 

“Not as long as I fucking live.”

She smiled, leaning forward to lay against his chest, breathing in the scent of his skin where her nose pressed into his throat. “Neither would I.” 

He hummed low in his throat, the sound vibrating against her skin. She rolled her hips experimentally, gasping at the feel of him, thick and hard against her. His hum shifted to a groan, hands diving into her hair and pulling her lips to his.

She opened to him immediately, revelling in the feel of his tongue sliding against hers, his strong jaw moving beneath her fingers, his hands holding her head firmly in place as he plundered her mouth.

“Gods, Granger,” he moaned between kisses. “I’ve wanted you for so long.” He pushed them up to a sitting position, and she used the change in position to wrap her arms around his shoulders. She tilted her hips, pressing herself even more firmly against him.

“Why didn’t you ever say anything?” she panted, out of her mind as his mouth trailed down the column of her throat. His hands followed closely behind, pulling at the neckline of her shirt to press sucking kisses to the tops of her breasts.

“ _Merlin,_ your breasts.” He looked up at her face, eyes molten with lust. “I’ve wanted to ask you on a date for ages, Granger, but I was afraid it would be—” he broke off, capturing her mouth in another searing kiss, seemingly unable to keep his mind—or his lips—off her body. “Afraid it would be inappropriate,” he finished a moment later, once they’d come up for air.

She laughed, struck at the ridiculousness of his statement. But then Draco grasped the hem of her shirt, pulling it over her head in one smooth motion, transforming her laugh into a sigh of pleasure. He palmed both breasts over the sheer lace of her bra before dropping his head, tracing a nipple with his tongue before deftly unfastening the clasp at the back. He whimpered softly when her bra fell away, baring her breasts to his gaze. 

Not content to be the only one topless, she pulled at the bottom of his undershirt, grinning in approval when he obediently removed it. She leaned into him, heart tripping in her chest at the silken feel of his bare skin against hers. His arms wrapped around her before he rolled them, pressing her down onto the soft mattress and moving quickly to settle himself between her legs.

Their lips met again, fiercer and more desperate than before. Hermione arched her back off the bed, pressing herself up into his hardness, whining petulantly at the denims that limited her movement.

He understood immediately. Lifting off of her, he reached for her buttons, then swiftly pulled her denims and knickers off. He took another brief moment to remove his own trousers and pants, kicking them across the room.

He stood at the foot of the bed, unashamed at his nudity, a smirk on his face. It was a scene straight from one of Hermione’s most fevered fantasies. She reached out to him, beckoning him back to her. Her eyes widened briefly at the sight of his erection—flushed and straining, a pearly bead of liquid leaking from the tip—but she forced her gaze back to his, unwilling to miss a second of the sight of him coming undone before her.

He climbed back onto the bed, crawling slowly up the length of her body, pressing kisses to her calves, her knees, her thighs. He paused when he reached her center, grasping her thighs and gently pushing them apart. He glanced up at her. “May I?”

She smiled nervously, fighting the urge to squirm. “If you’d like to.”

He returned her smile with a wolfish grin. “Oh, I’d like to. In fact, I’ve wanted to do this”—he kissed the inside of one thigh—“since you wore that short dress”—he kissed the other thigh, dragging his teeth lightly across her flesh—“to the beach last summer. You remember?” His lips slid up to her lower belly, nibbling gently at her skin until she writhed beneath him. 

She remembered. A long holiday weekend. A beach house in Cornwall. Trying not to salivate at the sight of Draco in a pair of fitted swim trunks, splashing about in the waves. 

“I had to spend all my time in the cold water,” he said to her navel, just before he dipped his tongue into it. “Every time the breeze blew I’d get a glimpse of your arse, and I—I just wanted to lay you back on your blanket and devour you.” 

She moaned softly, threading her fingers into his hair. He stared up at her from his place between her thighs, expression simultaneously reverent and triumphant.

Then he was lifting her knees and pressing his lips to her hot, damp flesh. 

His tongue slid into her folds, soft at first but with gradually increasing pressure and enthusiasm, making little sounds that vibrated through her entire body. And that was before he reached a hand up, grasping one of her breasts, massaging her flesh and plucking at her nipple. 

Only then did he move to her clit, sucking it gently between his lips. She held his head firmly in place, digging her heels into the mattress and lifting her hips. She felt her orgasm building, winding tighter and tighter until she snapped, thrashing her head against the pillows and crying out his name.

He licked her through it, gentling his lips and tongue until he was merely pressing soft, closed-mouth kisses against her mound as she trembled beneath him. He moved up her body, and her legs flopped bonelessly against the mattress without his hands there to support them.

He drew a nipple into his mouth, staring into her eyes as he sucked. The fire that had been reduced to a smolder exploded anew, and Hermione locked her legs around him, using her feet to pull his hips to hers. 

“Gods, Draco,” she panted. “I have wanted you for so long. I thought you saw me as just another of Albus’s employees—”

He laughed, bringing his lips to her throat. “I have never, ever wanted to do this with Hagrid.”

She giggled, then lifted her hips, grinding against him. He made a strangled sound as she reached between them, grasping his cock in one hand and lining him up at her entrance. 

“Draco,” she said, voice husky. “I think we’ve established that we have both wanted this for a long time. So if you wouldn’t mind, I’d really like you to fuck me now.”

He grinned, a dazed, drunken look appearing on his handsome face. “As you wish.”

And then he was pushing into her, mouth once again locked on hers, and she was moaning at the absolutely delicious fullness she felt when he bottomed out inside of her.

She grasped blindly at his back, his shoulders, his arms as he thrust inside of her, snapping his hips and whispering in her ear about how good she felt, how perfect she was, how long he’d burned for her. 

He rolled them so she was on top, gripping her hips tightly and encouraging her to ride him, shifting his hands up to fill them with her breasts. She leaned forward, hands planted firmly against his strong chest as she rolled her hips sinuously, keening as she felt that tell-tale tingling in her core, panting softly as she chased another orgasm. She threw her head back as the waves of feeling finally peaked and crashed through both of their bodies, sending a burst of involuntary magic sparking around the room. 

Afterward, they lay together in the cool darkness. His arm wound tightly around her waist, one of his long legs resting between both of hers. Her head lay pillowed against his chest, listening to his heartbeat thrum in her ears as her fingers stroked lazy patterns across his abdomen. 

The last conscious thought Hermione had before drifting off to sleep was that the reality of sleeping with Draco Malfoy had been better than any fantasy.

< \------------------------------- >

A tapping sound against the glass of the room’s single window woke Hermione from the delicious dream she’d been having, in which she and Draco had spent the night together: exploring one another’s bodies, talking about everything and nothing, and then repeating the process until the wee hours of the morning.

She sat up groggily, surprised to find that she was quite nude. She was also rather disoriented, as the room she was in was most certainly _not_ her bedroom. Deciding that she was definitely not rested enough to be awake and out of bed yet, she lay back down, snuggling into the fluffy pillows and sighing contentedly.

A moment later, the tapping sound began anew, followed by a decidedly masculine groan and the feel of a large, warm hand sliding over her hip, coming to rest possessively against her belly. “Are you going to let that bloody owl in or do you want me to kill it?” a husky voice asked in her ear, causing her eyes to fly open and her brain to furiously scramble to catch up.

She had slept with Draco. 

She had _slept_ with Draco.

She let out a high-pitched squeak, rolling toward the edge of the bed and engaging in a frantic search for her knickers before crossing to the window and opening it to the persistent owl.

It hopped inside, looking affronted at being made to wait _and_ at Hermione’s current state of undress. It extended its leg regally and she hurried to accept its delivery. Once its job was done, the owl flew out the still-open window, leaving Hermione standing stupidly in the middle of the hotel room.

She felt, rather than heard, Draco come up behind her, his body pressing against hers and his arms wrapping about the front of her shoulders. “Good morning, Granger,” he murmured, dropping his head to kiss sweetly along the side of her neck.

Any tension she had been feeling left her body in a rush. She melted back against him, allowing him to turn her and wrap her arms around his shoulders, smiling against his mouth as he claimed her lips in another kiss.

He bent at the knees, grasping the backs of her thighs to lift her up and into his arms, humming approvingly when she wrapped her legs around his waist and deepened the kiss. He turned and strode quickly to the bed. She shrieked in glee as he tossed her playfully onto the mattress, tears of mirth springing to her eyes as he hopped up to join her. 

Many minutes, a few orgasms, and one thoroughly tested bedframe later, they sat together at the small table, having tea and toast and browsing through the mail. Most of it was for Draco—including a copy of that morning’s Daily Prophet, whose headline screamed the news that Albus Dumbledore had left his entire fortune to his muggleborn Healer. Underneath the headline, a picture of Hermione from her Healer academy’s graduation ceremony smiled nervously out at the reader.

“It’s a nice picture of you, at least,” Draco offered, and she threw a crust of toast at him.

At the bottom of the pile, in a strange, looping hand, was an envelope addressed to Hermione. Draco handed it over with a lift of his brows, Hermione frowning at it for a beat before flipping it over and breaking the seal.

Inside was a copy of some sort of official paperwork, written on Ministry letterhead. Hermione’s eyes, however, were drawn to the bottom half of the paper, where there was a photograph of the tag from her medical bag, which had been mysteriously missing since the morning after Albus died. 

She stood, hands suddenly shaking uncontrollably. The letter fell from her numb fingers.

Frowning, face wreathed with concern, Draco stood as well, taking her hand and speaking softly to her. “What is it?”

She couldn’t answer; her voice had left her the moment she had opened the letter. Instead, she pointed.

Draco kneeled, picking up the letter and scanning it quickly. “This is the report from my grandfather’s autopsy. But why would someone send you this? And where’s the rest of it?” he asked, flipping the paper over.

Immediately, his eyes widened, hand lifting to cover his mouth. “Hermione,” he breathed, holding the letter out to her.

On the back, in that same strange, looping hand, five words were written in bold, black letters: **I know what you did.**

Hermione was dimly aware of her vision narrowing, her knees going weak, and Draco’s worried voice crying out her name, but then the hardwood floor rushed up to meet her, and everything went black.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter Seven will post NO LATER THAN Saturday 10/24. I'd love to have your company in the comments or on Tumblr, in the meantime!


	7. The Chase

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hermione and Draco engage in stylish subterfuge.
> 
> Theo and Harry pursue a suspect.
> 
> Hermione discovers who sent her the threatening letter.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter would literally be a hot mess without the wisdom of [granger_danger](https://archiveofourown.org/users/granger_danger) and [mightbewriting](https://archiveofourown.org/users/mightbewriting).

“Hermione? Hermione, can you hear me?”

Draco’s voice called to her as if from far away. Her head lolled to one side, awareness trickling back to her slowly as she opened her eyes. She realized two things at once: one, she had definitely fainted, and two, a pair of strong arms wrapped around her torso, holding her face to face with a very concerned-looking Draco Malfoy.

“Draco?”

He helped her sit up, grasping her elbow in his hand and steadying her as she pushed herself back toward the bedframe, leaning against the footboard for support. He picked up the letter she’d dropped, inspecting it carefully before holding it out to her.

When she was able to speak again, her voice shook. “This is bad.”

He nodded. They both knew what the autopsy report would show—that Albus had _not_ died of a self-inflicted _Sectumsempra,_ but rather an overdose of extra-potent Dreamless Sleep, brewed and administered by none other than Hermione herself. And they both knew what this letter itself meant—someone other than the two of them knew what had really happened to Albus.

“Who could have sent this?” she asked. “I was so careful. Did everything Albus told me to.”

“I don’t know,” Draco murmured, eyes on the floor. “I was the last one interviewed before you. Everyone else in my family had already left.” He moved closer to her, pressing his back to the footboard beside her. “You know, you won’t be able to inherit if you’re found responsible for his death.” 

Hermione made an indignant sound. “Do you really think I care about that? I’m honestly more concerned with staying out of Azkaban.” She sighed, dropping her head into her hands. “Although maybe that’s where I deserve to be.”

Draco wrapped an arm around her shoulders, his hand pulling her head to his chest and cradling it there. “Don’t say that. You _don’t_ deserve it. That’s why Granddad came up with this twisted plan; why I’m helping you. If you were sent to Azkaban I—” he broke off with a grimace, inhaling deeply through his nose. “I won’t let that happen.”

She tilted her face up to his. His jaw was set, eyes steely, face completely at odds with the gentleness of his fingers threading through her hair and massaging her scalp. 

“I don’t know what to do,” she said, and it was a testament to the depth of her anxiety that she even admitted it. She always knew what to do: in school, in hospital, in every situation, up until that awful moment when she’d looked down and seen the wrong fucking label on the wrong fucking potion bottle. 

“Well, let’s figure it out,” Draco said, talented fingers never stopping their motion against her scalp. “You’re brilliant, and I’m not exactly a troll. I also worked as Granddad’s research assistant every summer holiday while I was at Hogwarts.”

Hermione frowned. “I didn’t know that.”

“Ah, something else you don’t know.” He smiled, teasing and kind. “I think you’ll find that I’m full of surprises, Granger.”

“Likewise.” She smiled, thankful for the brief respite from the threat of the letter.

They sat together for what felt like hours. Her thoughts raced, flitting from one scenario— _Harry and Pansy dragging her away in magical handcuffs, Theo standing by and shaking his head_ —to another— _taking the next available portkey to Australia, sending Draco a coded letter saying she had made it safely, she wished things could have been different—_

She shook her head, giving herself a firm mental no. It would not do to dwell on thoughts like that, especially not now. 

Instead she stood, pulling on her soft wool jumper. Her denims followed, then her boots, then her hair was dealt with—pulled up and away from her face into a messy bun, with a few stubborn curls spiraling down on each side of her face. 

She turned to find Draco watching her, and smiled, holding out her hand to him. He took it, standing effortlessly and pulling her against his body. She pressed her cheek to his chest, his bare skin warm against hers, and felt his arms twine around her waist.

“I have an idea,” he murmured against the top of her head. “We need to go to the Ministry. If we get there early enough, before people start arriving for work, we can break into the department _this_ came from”—his voice turned bitter, foot kicking angrily at the autopsy report on the floor—“and destroy the original. Then we can focus on the blackmailer.” 

“ _Break in?”_ she said, rearing back to stare up at him in horror. “Draco, I can’t do that!”

“Gee, Granger, I thought it would be a more preferable crime to murder, but you’re right. A little breaking and entering would be a bridge too far.”

She sighed. “I just—I don’t want to _do_ any of this any more. I am so tired of making mistakes, and hiding, and feeling guilty, and—and throwing up!” She stepped away from his warmth, feeling immediately bereft but needing space. Throwing herself down on the unmade bed, she laid back, staring at the canopy overhead.

A few silent moments passed, then she heard Draco sigh, heard him step toward the bed and felt him bump her knee with his. “I’m sorry, Granger.” His voice was quiet. “I know everything is fucked up. I’m sorry I made things more complicated by kissing you and then—well, I’m not sorry we slept together, but if there’s any part of you that felt like it was a mistake, or that feels guilty about it now, then I _am_ sorry about that. Truly.”

She felt the mattress shift as he sat down beside her, his hand brushing her thigh but then retreating, as though he weren’t sure if she’d welcome his touch. She turned her head, seeing his pale head bent, his hands clasped tightly in his lap.

She stretched her arm up, touched his back. Stroked her fingers down his spine, watched him shiver. 

“That’s not what I was talking about, Draco.” 

He arched a brow at her. “You’re sure?”

She nodded.

“Well then,” he said, flopping onto his back next to her. “Maybe we don’t need to break into the Ministry. Maybe one of us can use our considerable charm and physical attractiveness to distract a secretary whilst the other one sneaks into the records department and steals the autopsy report.”

“I don’t have that many charms,” she said, voice dry.

“Nonsense. You have nothing but charms,” he chastised lightly, arching a brow at her. “But I had a feeling you’d say that. I was planning on being the distraction, of course.”

She chuckled, rolling to face him. “I’ll be the first to admit that you are quite distracting.” Grasping his shirt collar, she pulled, bringing his lips to hers for a kiss. “So I say we give your plan a shot.”

< \------------------------------- >

At Draco’s insistence, they donned disguises before leaving their temporary safe haven in York. Wouldn’t do to be identified when someone discovered the missing autopsy report, he reasoned. He transfigured his clothes from the previous day into a soft gray blazer, dark trousers, and a pair of thin-framed glasses. He finished the look with a dark cap to cover his rather distinctive hair. 

He should have looked ridiculous. 

He did not. 

Hermione went to work on her clothes, transfiguring her practical wool jumper, denims, and boots into a different colored practical wool jumper, darker denims, and a pair of trainers. 

Draco arched a brow at her. “You can do better than that, Granger.”

She huffed. “I don’t have the same fashion sense as your mother.”

“Ah, but luckily I do.” He held his wand aloft, as though asking for her permission. She nodded, and he murmured the incantation. 

She felt his magic swirling around her, felt the thick wool of her jumper melting into the buttery softness of a sweater dress, felt her denims changing into tights, her trainers narrowing and lifting into a pair of black, ankle-strap heels. 

With a final tap of his wand against a bit of flannel from the bathroom, he held out a deep burgundy coat dress, its gold buttons glinting at her in light. She shrugged it on, and allowed him to lead her to the bathroom, where they stood side by side in front of the full-length mirror. 

“Much better,” he murmured, and the way he looked at her sent a shiver of hot desire licking down her spine. 

She met his gaze in the mirror. He reached for her hand, clasping her fingers tightly in his. 

They apparated to London, quickly locating the telephone booth that served as the visitors’ entrance to the Ministry and receiving their guest badges. 

“Mrs. Lucius Black?” Hermione read, narrowing her gaze at Draco, who was pinning his own guest badge to his lapel. 

“It’s not technically a lie,” he said. “My middle name _is_ Lucius. I _am,_ in fact, the last male descendant of the Black family. And _if_ such a person as Lucius Black existed, he may as well have a lovely wife.”

With that, the telephone booth lurched into motion, and they disappeared below the streets of Whitehall.

The booth slowly descended to the Atrium. Hermione’s nerves increased exponentially with each passing floor of the Ministry. She rubbed her damp palms against her coat, shifting her weight from foot to foot. “You know, I haven’t been here since my previous run-in with the law.” A nervous laugh escaped. “Doesn’t bode well for our mission.”

Draco observed her silently. “Granddad told me about your arrest. What exactly were you thinking, chaining yourself to a statue?”

She pivoted and stalked toward him. “What was I thinking? Oh, I don’t know, maybe that werewolves have been treated with prejudice and discrimination for ages in the wizarding world? That they have been denied rights to housing, employment, or just basic decency? That, if some wizards and witches had their way, the same treatment would be extended to anyone or anything they deemed less than, including muggleborns?”

She was nearly chest to chest with him now, cheeks flushed from the force of her conviction. 

“Do you know something, Granger?” he said, voice low and—if she had been thinking clearly—obviously quite full of admiration.

“What?” she snapped.

“I do believe you’re the most interesting witch I’ve ever had the pleasure of knowing.” He smiled. “And you’re quite a sight to behold when you’re speaking about systemic injustice.”

She sniffed. “You’re making fun of me.”

“I assure you, I am not.”

She opened her mouth to respond, but closed it again when the booth lurched to a halt, doors sliding open to reveal the Atrium. Draco offered her his arm, secret smile still on his face as she begrudgingly accepted his elbow. 

They stepped over the threshold, turning toward the Department of Magical Law Enforcement. Yet a crush of bodies in the hallway stalled their progress almost immediately; a magical barrier just ahead held the crowd at bay.

“What’s going on?” Hermione asked, mostly to herself.

An elderly witch to her right took it upon herself to answer. “There’s been a terrible fire up in the DMLE’s records department. Luckily, it happened early this morning, before anyone arrived for the day, but it’s caused a terrible mess. And all those records—just gone,” she finished solemnly.

“How awful,” Hermione breathed. She clenched her fingers more tightly around Draco’s arm, using the solid feel of him at her side to ground herself.

“Awful,” Draco repeated, placing his free hand on top of Hermione’s. “What caused the fire?”

As though she could tell she had an interested audience, the witch leaned in conspiratorially. “Well no one will say for sure, of course,” she began. “But I overheard an Auror saying something about it looking like a _Confringo_ spell, as the whole records department is just—” she broke off, making an explosion sound with her mouth. 

Draco raised both brows and gasped, looking appropriately shocked at the apparent act of terrorism. He glanced down at Hermione. Her face must have been as pale as it felt, as his expression immediately changed to one of sincere concern.

“If you’ll excuse us,” he said to the witch, turning them and leading Hermione away. They walked quickly back to the Atrium, past the main fountain, and down a small side hallway that held several single-stall, all-gender loos. Looking in both directions to make sure no one would see them, Draco pushed open one of the doors and pulled Hermione inside.

Immediately, he pressed her back against the door, hands caressing the sides of her throat as he lowered his head to kiss her.

Her eyes widened. She gripped his lapels in both hands and pushed him away. “What is the matter with you? Does arson normally put you in the mood, or is this a special occasion?”

He chuckled, undeterred. His hands remained where they were, fingers lightly caressing the skin of her collarbone. “You’re delightful.”

She batted them away. “Have you hit your head? How can you possibly be experiencing anything other than total confusion right now?”

“Granger,” he said, then corrected himself. “Hermione. The records department of the Department for Magical Law Enforcement has been destroyed—and not by us, which is quite serendipitous. That means that the original copy of my grandfather’s autopsy is gone. _Gone,”_ he emphasized, shaking her shoulders lightly for emphasis.

“But someone still knows,” she argued, voice sharp. “They made a copy of the report. Which means it doesn’t matter that the original has been destroyed.”

“Yes, but that person has the only copy now. If we can get it—” He grew serious, less playful. “If we can get it, and destroy it, you’re in the clear.”

“How are we supposed to do that, exactly?”

As though her words had summoned it, a wispy gopher Patronus appeared through the door. Its voice was raspy and disembodied, but its words were clear.

“Hermione Granger,” it said, hovering a mere centimeter away from her face. “I have the report. I have your medical bag. If you want them, meet me at Shyverwretch’s in half an hour. Come alone.”

And with that, the Patronus dissipated like fog in sunshine.

“Well then,” Draco said, piercing the bubble of silence hanging heavy in the space between them. “Shall we?”

“It said I have to go alone.”

He scoffed. “Granger, that’s obviously not going to happen. Shyverwretch’s is a potion shop in Knockturn Alley that specializes in venoms and poisons, and Merlin only knows what will be waiting for you there. I’m not going to let you face it alone. Now let’s go—we can use one of the Floos to get to the Leaky Cauldron and then walk from there. But we need to move.”

She sighed, knowing he was right. Then she grasped his lapels once more, pulling him in for a kiss.

He responded eagerly, threading his fingers into her hair, pulling it loose from the messy updo she’d charmed it into. When they finally broke apart, he smiled against her lips. “What was that for?”

“For helping me,” she replied simply. Then she smiled. “And for looking rather dashing in your cap and glasses.”

They stepped back out into the hallway, careful to make sure their disguises were in order after their snogging session. Hermione took Draco’s hand, leading him toward the Atrium and the long line of Floos flaring green with the comings and goings of Ministry employees.

They took their place in line behind a wizard in electric blue robes, whose face was buried in a copy of that morning’s Daily Prophet. Hermione’s eyes widened in horror as she saw her own face looking back at her from the front page. She pulled her coat collar up higher around her neck, wishing she had thought to transfigure a hat for herself to cover her distinctive hair.

Draco seemed to arrive at the same conclusion, murmuring, “Allow me,” in her ear before casting a spell to send her riotous curls into a loose braid. 

“Thank you,” she whispered, just as the man in front of them stepped into the Floo, shouting “Gringotts!” as he disappeared.

Hermione took a deep breath, attempting to steady her nerves for what felt like the hundredth time that morning alone. She and Draco moved forward, fingers entwined. 

They stepped over the grate, Hermione clearly calling out their destination. Spinning into the flames, she risked a final glance back into the Atrium.

And found herself looking straight into the eyes of Theo Nott.

< \------------------------------- >

Harry Potter was having a shit day.

First, an emergency Patronus from Kingsley Shacklebolt woke him at three o’clock in the morning, alerting all Aurors to report to the Ministry at once. After a night of tossing and turning as he replayed his interrupted kiss with Theo on a loop, Harry was tired, groggy, and out of sorts.

Then, he’d spent the next few hours sifting through the burned out rubble of the DMLE’s records department, looking for clues as to who had performed the spell that sent a targeted explosion through the offices and why, exactly, someone would do such a thing.

And now, as he walked through the Atrium to pick up a takeaway cup of sugary, ultra-caffeinated coffee, who would be standing near the Floo system, a pensive look on his handsome face, but the object of his very frustrated dreams: Theodore Nott.

“Well that’s just wonderful,” Harry grumbled to himself, debating whether he should hide or greet Theo. Raking a hand roughly through his hair, he walked toward the private investigator, feeling awkward about the way they’d left things after their interrupted kiss. 

Harry opened his mouth, prepared to offer a greeting, but Theo spoke first.  
“Morning, Harry.” His attention remained fixed on the line of Floos, their fires flaring green as witches and wizards stepped through to their next destination.

“Morning.” Harry shifted nervously from foot to foot. _I wish he would look at me. Why won’t he look at me?_

“I heard you’ve been rather busy this morning. Records department fiasco?”

Harry nodded, before realizing that, because of Theo’s insistence on avoiding his eyes, he couldn’t really see him. “Yes,” he amended..

“Any idea why that particular department was targeted?”

“A few theories, but nothing concrete as of yet.”

“Do you think it has to do with the Albus Dumbledore murder?”

Harry blinked. “You know, Pansy thought so because his autopsy report was just posted yesterday, but I’m waiting to see more evidence.”

“Smart girl, our Pansy.” Theo finally turned to face him. Harry felt his gaze like a physical blow to the chest. He ached in the general area of his heart. Theo seemed similarly affected, his eyes burning into Harry’s with some unidentifiable emotion. If Harry had been held at wandpoint and forced to name it, he’d say it was longing.

“You look tired,” Theo’s voice was soft, almost concerned. “I hope you didn’t have as much trouble sleeping last night as I did.” 

Harry swallowed. “I might have done.”

The corner of Theo’s lips quirked up into a smile. His hand twitched against his pant leg, as though he were desperately trying to keep it from lifting, from reaching, from touching Harry. 

Harry shivered, feeling a particular sort of tension tingling beneath his skin. When he spoke, his voice came out huskier than he’d intended. “What are you doing here, Theo?” 

“Oh, you know.” Theo shrugged, stepping closer to Harry. If he took a deep breath, their chests would touch. “Received an anonymous owl that said there’d been an attack on the DMLE and strongly suggested I’d find the culprits here. So far, I haven’t—”

He suddenly straightened, face sobering as his gaze caught on something beyond Harry’s shoulder. “Listen, Harry, I’d tell you to run and get Pansy, but we don’t have time. We need to get to the Leaky Cauldron immediately.”

“Erm, why? I’m supposed to be working.”

“You will be working, you absolute tit. We are going to question a suspect for Albus’s murder.”

Harry felt his eyebrows disappear into his hairline. “We are? Who is it?”

“You know, Harry, you are rather adorable when you’re confused. Let me help you. First, you are going to send a Patronus to Pansy to let her know where to meet us—at The Leaky Cauldron, remember?” As he spoke, Theo began pulling Harry toward the Floo. “Then, we are going to step through the Floo and follow the two people I just watched disappear into that very fireplace. Two people who really had no business being at the Ministry this morning, especially seeing as they have not been seen at all since yesterday’s dramatic will reading and were also taking great pains to conceal their identities with, admittedly, rather fashionable disguises.”

When Harry continued to stand stupidly, brain foggy from lack of sleep, Theo took his hand. With his other hand he cupped Harry’s face, tracing his fingers gently along Harry’s sharp cheekbone and provoking a shiver. “Go ahead, love. Send the Patronus.”

Harry did.

“And here we go. Off to catch our suspect.”

“But who is it?” Harry cried. His words were drowned out by Theo calling out their destination, then swallowed by a flash of green fire.

< \------------------------------- >

Hermione and Draco pushed through the doors of The Leaky Cauldron, stepping out into the narrow alleyway that led to Diagon Alley. Pulling her wand out of her coat pocket, Hermione quickly tapped the bricks, sending them shifting and rearranging into an arched passageway. They stepped through it, Hermione’s stylish—if rather impractical—heels clicking against the cobblestones. She looked over her shoulder, but the tall, angular form of Theo Nott was nowhere to be seen.

“He probably didn’t recognize us, Granger, and even if he did, we don’t have time to change our plans. We’re supposed to be at Shyverwretch’s in twenty minutes.” Draco took her hand and pulled her across the street. “Come on, it’s this way.” They hurried past Madam Malkin’s, Flourish and Blotts, and Ollivander’s, making their way toward the end of Diagon. Just as Gringotts’ pale marble facade came into view, a loud voice called out from behind them. “Malfoy!”

Hermione’s heart seized in her chest. She threw another panicked glance over her shoulder, throat constricting at the sight of Theo Nott _and_ Harry Potter, wands out, running toward them.

“Oh, fuck me,” Draco said, taking an extra moment to transfigure Hermione’s heels back into her trusty boots before shouting, “Run!”

They ran, feet thundering against the cobblestones. Hermione did her best to keep up with Draco’s longer stride, pushing herself to run faster. Behind them, disarming spells pinged off the sides of buildings, narrowly missing their heads as they bobbed and weaved.

Too afraid to fire any defensive spells, Hermione focused instead on following Draco’s lead, turning down a darkened side street and into Knockturn Alley. Buildings blurred on either side of her as she ran, moving too fast to read the signs.

Then, before she’d even realized it happened, a well-aimed _Stupefy_ hit Draco square in the middle of his back. He tumbled to the ground, cap and glasses flying off and head hitting the damp cobblestones with a sickening crack. 

“Draco!” 

Hermione skidded to a halt, falling to her knees beside him. His eyes were squeezed tightly shut, pain evident on his features. Blood sheeted down his pale face, staining his platinum hair crimson. She touched him carefully, rolling him and pulling his upper body into her lap, ignoring the deafening footsteps coming to a stop just behind them.

Her Healer’s instincts took over, fingers carefully lifting an eyelid to check the dilation of his pupils, then prodding gently along his hairline to assess the seriousness of his injury. Draco winced as she found a lump above his right temple, moaning low in his throat. Her fingers came away bloody.

“Miss Granger, stand and move away from Mr Malfoy.” Harry’s voice was calm, but firm. 

She glared at him over her shoulder, refusing to move. “Which one of you stunned him from behind? Is that standard protocol for the Auror department—attack a man when his back is turned? He could have a serious head injury, you complete arse!”

“He ran.” Harry had the decency to look guilty, Hermione noted, but she was too angry, too afraid, too exhausted mentally and emotionally to acknowledge it. 

Instead, she practically spit with fury. “You were chasing us! We were on our way to—” she broke off, not wanting to tell the truth but not able to lie. “We were late for a very, very important meeting. And anyway, it doesn’t matter if he ran—you shouldn’t just attack people without provocation. I have half a mind to write to Minister Shacklebolt with a complaint of Auror brutality—”

Draco’s fingers found her jaw, interrupting her tirade and bringing her attention back to him. She whimpered at the sight of the blood dripping down his face. Reaching for her wand, she deftly cleaned and bandaged his wound. He winced slightly, but spoke to her in a quiet voice.

“It’s alright, Granger. You can protest this injustice after you keep our appointment. It doesn’t look like I’ll be joining you.” His eyes flicked to where Harry and Theo stood just above him, wands still drawn.

“What?” Hermione blinked, looking up at the investigators. “Where are you taking him?”

“To the DMLE, of course,” Theo said, no trace of a smile on his normally playful face. “We have several more questions to ask him about his whereabouts on the night of his grandfather’s death. In addition to his whereabouts this morning.”

“But—”

“Hermione,” Draco’s voice interrupted sharply. When her eyes met his again, he softened. “It’s okay,” he whispered, before continuing in a stronger voice. “Go ahead, Theo. I know you’ve been waiting for this moment since our first year at Hogwarts.”

Theo smiled sadly, hooking a hand around Draco’s elbow and helping him stand. “Believe it or not, I haven’t, mate. Never really wanted anything more than to be your friend.”

Harry approached cautiously, extending a hand to Hermione. She ignored him, pushing to her feet, steadying herself against the nearest building when she felt her knees shake.

Harry took Draco’s other elbow, beginning to turn them when Hermione held out a hand, pleading for a final moment with the man who was beginning to mean so much to her. 

Harry opened his mouth to argue, but the sound of running footsteps pulled everyone’s attention to the entrance of Knockturn Alley. 

Pansy Parkinson appeared around the corner, dressed in midnight blue activewear and trainers, dark hair flying behind her as she ran. She came to a graceful stop in front of them, barely out of breath, rolling her eyes as she pulled her wand from a concealed pocket of her high-waisted leggings. 

“What the actual _fuck,_ Harry?” she snapped. “This is exactly why you’re never supposed to go on assignment without me. Remember Cornwall? That case got tossed out of the Wizengamot because you went full muggle and punched our suspect.” 

Harry grimaced, looking sheepishly at his partner.

Pansy turned to the others. “Harry and I will get this sorted at the DMLE. You will not be joining us, Nott. Please see that Miss Granger gets home safely.”

Theo nodded, bowing gracefully to Pansy. “As you wish, my lady.”

Pansy took Theo’s place at Draco’s elbow, leading him back toward Diagon Alley. It took everything Hermione had not to follow, not to throw herself in front of them, not to confess everything and stop the injustice of seeing Draco led away for questioning.

As if he could sense her torment, he looked back over his shoulder, eyes meeting hers. “It will be fine, Granger.” 

< \------------------------------- >

Time seemed to stop in the interval between Draco’s tall form disappearing around the corner and Theo’s hand appearing in her peripheral vision, holding out a handkerchief. She hadn’t even realized that she’d started crying in earnest until his embroidered monogram was in her face.

“Come, Hermione,” he said, voice surprisingly gentle. “Let’s get you home.”

She shook her head, declining his handkerchief and swiping at the wetness on her cheeks. Pushing past him, she continued on toward her earlier destination, determined to finish her aborted mission. “I’m not going anywhere. I have to get to—to an appointment.”

She practically growled in frustration as he fell into step beside her.

“Oh? I thought you said earlier it was a meeting?”

“It is an appointment. For a meeting.”

Theo smirked. “And where is this appointment-slash-meeting taking place?”

Hermione hesitated, but even the thought of misleading him made her stomach twist in anticipation. “Shyverwretch’s.”

His brows lifted. “What could you possibly need at _that_ particular shop?”

She sighed, holding a brief internal debate before shaking her head. “I can’t tell you. Not yet.” She slanted a look at him from beneath her lashes. “But if you still think I’m a ‘good egg’—if you still trust me at all—please let me do this.”

Theo stroked his jaw with one hand, face carefully, painfully blank. Finally, he spoke. “Alright, then. Lead the way.”

She wanted to argue with him, but there was no time. She could only hope that whoever or whatever was waiting at the potion shop would provide answers, an explanation, _something_ to help remove any suspicion surrounding Draco for a crime he most definitely did not commit. So rather than arguing, she nodded. A strained silence enveloped them as they walked.

“You know,” Theo finally offered, as casually as if he were commenting on the weather, “this case has been strange from the start. A _Sectumsempra_ suicide that wasn’t, a family chock full of secrets and lies, a missing medicine bag, a records department explosion, and a Healer who inherited everything before running off with a possible murder suspect. All that and I still don’t know who hired me.” 

They arrived at Shyverwretch’s, a squat storefront with darkened windows and a splintered door that had seen better days. Theo tapped his expensive boot against the stone wall beneath the sign, looking pensive. “Strange and getting stranger,” he said, meeting her eyes. 

Hermione huffed. “I don’t know what to tell you, Theo. I don’t know who hired you, either. But I’d like to find out. So, let me just”—she gestured toward the door—”pop inside and then we can talk more. I won’t be gone a moment.”

“Nonsense. I will be accompanying you.”

“No!” she burst out, grimacing internally when his eyes widened in surprise. 

“You see, the meeting—it’s personal. About—well—” she leaned in, mind whirring frantically to think of something that wouldn’t technically be a lie. “It’s about um, _female issues.”_

“Ah.” He rocked back on his heels. “In that case, I’ll give you a few minutes of privacy. But I’ll be waiting right here. Ready to talk when you’ve dealt with—” he gestured to the air in front of him, as though it contained the word he sought.

She nodded, then pulled open the door and stepped over the threshold, suppressing a dry heave from her borderline lie. 

The interior of the shop was dark, rendering Hermione temporarily blind as her eyes adjusted. She cast a Lumos, attempting to find something—anything—that could orient her in the darkness. She felt her way inside the shop, hands stretched out in front of her, stopping only when her fingertips grazed the rough edge of a countertop. 

“Hello?” she called out, pulse pounding through her veins with a mixture of fear and anticipation, senses on high alert for movement or sound. 

There was nothing.

She felt her way slowly along the counter’s length, the thin beam of light from her wand allowing her to just make out a wall lined with bottles of potion ingredients. There were also several containers of what appeared to be animal fetuses suspended in a thick, viscous fluid. A large apothecary jar full of human teeth sat behind the counter, dimly illuminated by the few frail beams of sunlight that fought their way through the grimy windowpanes.

“Hello?” Hermione called again. “I got your letter and Patronus. I don’t know what you want from me, or what you think you—”

A strangled, choking sound from behind her stole the rest of her words, sending her whirling in place, breath stuck somewhere between her lips and her lungs as she saw what—or rather, who—had made the noise.

In a chair against the opposite wall, hidden by the dark interior of the shop but revealed by the light of Hermione’s wand, sat Rosmerta. 

A bound, gagged, semi-conscious Rosmerta. 

Hermione’s medical bag was at her feet.

Hermione’s feet moved without her permission. Her brain was stuck somewhere on the why and how of the sight of one of her friends bound to a chair, ropes cutting into the skin of her arms and legs, mouth pulled into an unnatural grimace around the dirty rag stuffed between her lips.

She fell to her knees before her. With a hand steadied by thousands of hours of Healer training, she reached to carefully remove the gag, then sliced at the bindings with her wand. The older woman’s prone form slid off the chair and into Hermione’s waiting arms.

“Rosmerta? Can you hear me?”

She patted Rosmerta’s cheek gently, then watched with relief as her eyelids fluttered and her breathing became more regular.

Her relief soon turned to alarm, however, as Rosmerta’s eyes rolled back in her head, muscles stiffening and back arching uncontrollably with the force of the seizure that rolled through her body.

Hermione cleared a spot on the floor and carefully rolled Rosmerta onto her side. The seizure was brief—lasting less than a minute by Hermione’s count—but every second was torturously long.

Finally, Rosmerta stilled. Hermione crawled around her body, pushing her hair back from her forehead and dropping a hand to check her pulse. Just as her fingertips found the thread of Rosmerta’s overtaxed heartbeat, Rosmerta’s hand rose to clamp down on Hermione’s wrist, forcing a scream from her throat.

She was dimly aware of the door flying open behind her, but her entire focus remained on Rosmerta. The housekeeper’s lips were moving, voice straining to be heard. Hermione leaned down until they were eye to eye, listening intently to hear the words Rosmerta was fighting so hard to say.

“It’s...you,” Rosmerta finally croaked. 

“Yes, it’s me. I’m going to help—”

“No!” Rosmerta rasped, cutting off Hermione’s reassurances. “It—was— _you.”_

Hermione would have recoiled, but her wrist was still held tightly in Rosmerta’s clammy hand. The older woman’s eyes burned into Hermione’s, bloodshot and bulging from her head. She pulled Hermione even closer, face ghostly pale as she spoke directly into Hermione’s ear. 

“Have copy...stashed. Won’t get...away...with it.”

Hermione absorbed Rosmerta’s words with a soft gasp. Her heart clenched painfully in her chest as their meaning sliced through her, swift and deadly as any _Sectumsempra._ Just as she was about to speak—to ask Rosmerta what she meant, what she was talking about, how she knew—Rosmerta let out another strangled gasp and lost consciousness again.

For one horrible moment, time seemed to stop. Hermione froze. A buzzing filled her ears, hands clenching against Rosmerta’s shoulder as she became aware of nothing except the ebb and flow of her own breathing.

_Rosmerta could die. If she died, the truth would die with her. No one would ever know what you did._

Then time sped back up, and Hermione was calling out for Theo’s help, issuing commands in a brisk, no-nonsense tone— _pick her up, take my arm, we have to get her to St. Mungo's_ —sparing only a moment to snatch up her medical bag from its place on the floor before she turned, twisting the three of them through time and space in a desperate attempt to save the other woman’s life. 

No matter the cost.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter Eight will post NO LATER THAN SATURDAY 11/7.


	8. The Truth

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I was going to post this later in the week, but my anxiety over the US Election is HIGH, y'all. I hope you enjoy the early update...and if you haven't already, PLEASE VOTE!

The waiting room of St. Mungo’s was a dull olive green. Green wallpaper, green vinyl chairs, green artificial plants in each of the four corners. Hermione sat in one such chair, near one such plant, feeling as though she were drowning in a cauldron of pea soup.

Theo waltzed into the waiting room, a cheeky smile fixed on his face as though he and Hermione hadn’t just brought in a barely-breathing, unconscious woman. He sank into the seat next to her, reaching into the interior pocket of his coat and pulling out a small plastic bag.

“Carrot?” he asked, popping open the sealed top and extending it toward her.

“No, thank you.”

He shrugged, digging a baby carrot out of the bag and biting into it. He repeated the process—dig, crunch, chew, dig, crunch, chew—until Hermione was sure she would lose her mind. When he’d devoured every last carrot, he vanished the bag.

Hermione sighed, feeling her anxiety lessen in the sudden absence of Theo’s noisy chewing.

That is, until he reached into a different pocket of his coat. Removed a different plastic bag. And began a different series of eating noises as he unhinged his jaw and took a massive bite of what appeared to be an egg and cress sandwich.

Hermione shifted in her chair, leaning as far away from him as physically possible. He either didn’t notice or didn’t care, turning to grin at her around a mouthful of egg. 

“What an exciting day. Don’t you think so?”

She shot him a disbelieving look. “That’s not really how I’d describe it, no.” 

Theo hummed, a sound of disagreement that began in his chest and moved smoothly upwards. He finished his last few bites of sandwich, licking his fingertips with a flourish.

Hermione sat forward miserably, resting her elbows on her knees. “I just don’t understand what happened this morning. Rosmerta is my friend. Why would she take my medical bag? Why try to blackmail me? It doesn’t make any sense.”

“Opioid addiction?” Theo suggested, as breezily as if he were discussing the weather that day.

Hermione shook her head. “She wasn’t a user.”

He shrugged again, as though he didn’t agree with her, but saw no point in arguing about it further.

They sat in silence for a few moments, both jumping slightly in their chairs when a nurse burst through the waiting room doors. She looked about the room until her eyes fell on Theo, then strode toward him purposefully, an irritated look on her face.

“This has just been delivered to the nurse’s station, with instructions for it to be delivered at once to”—she scowled at the envelope, adjusting the glasses on her nose—“Private Inspector Theodore Nott.”

“Ah, that would be me,” Theo said, dialing up the charm with a smile that showcased every one of his perfect teeth. It did nothing to sweeten the woman’s sour mood. She tossed the envelope at him and spun on her sensible heel, marching from the room.

“Tough crowd,” Theo murmured. He tore open the letter, eyes moving quickly over the messy handwriting, smile fading as he read.

“Well, Hermione,” he finally said, raising his eyes once more to her face. “I have some good news and bad news.”

She gulped. 

“The good news,” he began, propping one booted foot across his opposite knee, “is that Draco Malfoy is no longer being questioned about the death of his grandfather.” 

Hermione braced herself for the bad news. She didn’t have to wait long. “The bad news,” Theo continued, the kind look on his face sending a chill down her spine, “is that he is now under arrest for the murder of his grandfather.”

His words were like an electric shock to Hermione’s body. The blood drained from her face as she fully absorbed their meaning. “No,” she breathed, shaking her head. “No, he can’t be. He didn’t kill Albus.”

Theo laid a hand over hers, its warmth offering support that she wasn’t capable of accepting. “Hermione—he confessed.”

Her mouth fell open, heart clenching painfully in denial. _Why?_

She squeezed her eyes shut, willing her body to stop its sudden trembling. She thought of Albus, sacrificing himself to keep her out of trouble. Of Draco, stunned in the street and now arrested despite his innocence. Of Rosmerta, fighting for her life in a hospital bed. How many more people would be hurt? How many more would have their lives torn apart over _her_ actions? _Her_ mistake? 

When she became a Healer, she took an oath to do no harm. But she was doing nothing _but_ harm—and to people she genuinely cared about. Tears gathered behind her closed lids, and she inhaled shakily, feeling resolve solidify in her chest. 

“Enough. People I care about are getting hurt.” She opened her eyes to find Theo watching her closely. “I’m going to tell you the truth.”

He leaned toward her, face neutral and composed, as though trying not to spook her. 

“Draco didn’t have anything to do with Albus’s death. But I did.” Her tears fell in earnest now, sliding down her cheeks and dripping onto the front of her lovely coat. “I made a mistake on the night he died. Gave him the wrong medication in the wrong dosage. He—” She paused, choking back a sob. “He said he didn’t want my life to be ruined over a mistake. So he told me what to do—how to cover up my error—and then…and then—”

She broke off, doubling over in her seat. Her arms wrapped around her torso, fingers gripping her elbows hard enough to leave bruises. Her emotions spun in a whirlwind of contrasting shades—grief, regret, shame, and yes—relief. 

No more lying. No more hiding.

It was over.

“And then he cursed himself?” Theo’s soft voice broke into her thoughts. She nodded miserably.

“Well, that certainly answers many of my lingering questions,” he murmured quietly. She raised her head, meeting his eyes. Instead of anger or disgust, which she’d fully expected to see, she found sympathy. 

Pity. 

After a long while, her sobs quieted and tears slowed. Only then did Theo speak. “How do you know you gave him the wrong medicine?” 

“The labels.” She sniffled. “The bottles got knocked over when Albus kicked the chessboard. I didn’t check them when I picked them back up—just administered the medication by instinct. After I gave him what I _thought_ was Heart Healer, and started to prepare his Dreamless Sleep potion, I saw—I read—oh, _gods._ How could I have been so stupid?” she finished.

Theo said nothing, merely stared into the middle distance, clearly lost in thought. 

She straightened in her chair, sternly taking hold of her emotions. “You have to release Draco. And I—I have to tell the family. They deserve to hear it from me.”

Theo’s lips thinned, but he didn’t argue with her. “I’ll send a Patronus. They can all meet us at the manor.”

< \------------------------------- >

An hour later, Hermione climbed the steps to Albus’s home for the very last time. After all, it would be hard to visit while confined to a cell in Azkaban.

Fear seized her muscles and she stumbled. Theo’s hand immediately came up to support her elbow, steadying her. 

“Thank you.” Her voice was barely audible, even to her own ears.

The front door flew open, and Tonks rushed out. She threw her arms around Hermione’s shoulders, her tear-stained face roughly the same shade as her raspberry-colored hair.

“Hermione,” she sobbed. “I am so sorry for yesterday. You didn’t deserve to be spoken to that way. You know how Bellatrix is. Gods, I should have slapped her, the hateful old snake!”

Hermione patted her back gently. “It’s alright. Really.” 

Tonks released her with a watery sigh. She brushed at her cheeks, wiping her hands on her denims before smiling hesitantly at Hermione. “I think we’ll need to raid Rosmerta’s stash when this is all over. I’m sure she wouldn’t mind.” 

“Right.” Hermione grimaced, a fresh wave of guilt washing over her at the mention of Rosmerta. And then—like a bolt of lightning—a realization struck. 

Tonks and Theo walked toward the drawing room together, but Hermione found her feet quite incapable of moving. Her body froze in place, immobilized by Tonks’s offhand comment.

 _Draco asking Tonks if she had anything stronger than alcohol at Albus’s memorial. “Not on me. But I know where to find some. I’ll show you.”_

_Tonks leading them to the clock in the library. “This is where Rosmerta keeps her secret stash.”_

_Rosmerta’s strong grip on Hermione’s arm, fire and fear in her eyes as she hissed, “Have copy stashed. Won’t get away with it.”_

“Theo?” Hermione whispered. He paused, looking over his shoulder at her. Immediately, his friendly visage shifted to concerned—smile dropping, brows furrowing, jaw tensing. He sent Tonks ahead with a few quiet words before returning to Hermione.

“What is it?” he asked. “Having second thoughts? It’s completely understandable, given the nature of the discussion you’re about to have. If you’d like—”

“Theo,” she interrupted. “Shut up.”

His brows rose, but his mouth obediently snapped shut.

She took his hand, pulling him in the opposite direction, toward the library. She retraced her steps from the night of the memorial, crossing the large room to the ornate grandfather clock. Gods, had that only been a few days ago?

Finding the carved lion with her fingers, she pushed. At first, nothing happened, but with another forceful push—and a muttered expletive, for good measure—she felt the lion give way, springing open to reveal the secret compartment.

A piece of parchment lay folded inside, tied shut with a bit of twine. A small sprig of pine lay under the twine, the needles brittle beneath her fingers as she pulled the letter out.

Heart racing—whether with relief or fear, Hermione couldn’t be sure—she handed it to Theo without a hint of hesitation.

“This should give you definitive proof of everything I told you. A-about the medication mix-up.” She swallowed, feeling a bit light-headed. “And I just handed it to you. Sorry to ruin your reputation as a brilliant investigator, Theo.”

He smiled, expression fonder than it had any right to be. “To be fair, Hermione, you’re not exactly a criminal mastermind.” 

< \------------------------------- >

Harry and Pansy walked up the drive to the manor. Draco followed just behind, steps heavy with dejection.

When Harry had told Draco that he was, in fact, no longer under arrest for the murder he'd confessed to, Draco surprised him. Rather than appearing relieved, he’d seemed afraid. He’d asked several rapid-fire questions about what had changed, what they’d learned, and where Hermione Granger was. When Pansy told him that Hermione had confessed to everything, Draco had gone pale. Stood and began pacing. Shouted quite a bit about lack of evidence and false confessions and high-priced lawyers he’d be hiring to defend Hermione. His tirade was finally interrupted by the appearance of Theo’s hippo patronus, instructing them to meet him at the manor.

Harry glanced at his partner now. Her mouth was set in a thin line, hands balled into tight fists at her side. 

_Yep. Still mad._

Which, okay, he guessed was fair. He hadn’t really been thinking rationally when he’d seen Theo in the middle of the Ministry Atrium, looking tall and well-dressed and handsome. Then, of course, Theo had turned to him with that _face_ and that _voice_. He’d told Harry that he’d had trouble sleeping and that Harry was adorable and all Harry could think of was how Theo’s lips had tasted. How Theo’s body had felt pressed against his own. What might have happened if they hadn’t been interrupted in Albus’s conservatory.

And then, Theo had upset his equilibrium even further by announcing that they were dashing off together to pursue a suspect. 

And _then,_ obviously, Harry had been caught up in the excitement of the chase, and had made a terrible error in judgment by stunning Draco. He winced anew at the thought of Draco’s battered, bloodied, bandaged form sitting in the Auror interrogation room, eyes downcast and face contorted in pain. Nevertheless, Draco had graciously accepted Harry’s apology—along with a pain-relieving potion.

Harry sighed. Pansy would not be sending him on any solo coffee runs again, that was for certain. But he supposed he deserved that.

They trudged up the stairs, through the door, and down the hall. As they passed the open library door, Harry came to an abrupt halt, causing Pansy and then Draco to bump into him.

“What the—”

“Oof!”

“Harry?” Theo’s voice spoke from inside the library. He stood next to Hermione, a folded sheaf of parchment in his hand. “Ah, and Pansy and Draco, as well. Go ahead to the drawing room. We’ll be along.”

Draco either didn’t hear Theo or chose to ignore him. He pushed past Harry and Pansy, striding up to Hermione and taking her hands in his. When he spoke, his voice was hoarse. “What do you think you’re doing?”

“The right thing,” she replied, holding his gaze. Her lower lip trembled, but as Harry looked on, she wrested control of her emotions, blinking quickly and pulling her hands from Draco’s. She turned to Theo, nodding firmly. “I’m ready.”

< \------------------------------- >

Walking away from Draco was one of the hardest things Hermione had ever done. The hurt in his eyes made her chest ache, but it was better to end this—whatever it was that they were to each other—now, rather than prolong that hurt through her confession, her trial, her imprisonment in Azkaban.

She followed Theo down the hall to the drawing room, the footsteps of Draco, Harry, and Pansy echoing behind her.

The three Black sisters were assembled on a sofa in the drawing room, sitting in order of their birth—Bellatrix and Narcissa on either end, Andromeda in the middle. Tonks sat in a nearby chair, while Lucius leaned against the marble mantel, a sneer twisting his pompous face.

“Has she come to her senses then? Realized a muggleborn such as herself has no right to that kind of wizarding fortune? Has she even ever been to a real Gringotts vault?”

“ _She_ is standing right there, Lucius,” Narcissa snapped. “Must you insist on being a complete arse?”

Hermione nodded her appreciation to Narcissa, knowing it was likely the last kindness the woman would ever show her. Then she took a deep, steadying breath. Distantly, she was aware of Theo unfolding the parchment she’d given him, silently reading it as she worked up the courage to speak.

She met Narcissa’s gaze, then Andromeda’s, then finally Bellatrix’s. Each set of eyes stared expectantly back at her, likely waiting to find out why, exactly, they had been summoned.

“Albus was very special to me,” Hermione began, swallowing nervously when Draco stepped into her periphery. He walked slowly, purposefully, to stand behind his mother, never taking his eyes from her face. “I don’t think I’ll ever be able to adequately express how grateful I am for his presence in my life. And you—you all have been good to me. What I’m about to say is upsetting, but I believe you deserve to hear it from me. I—”

Theo let out a strangled noise, interrupting Hermione. Everyone in the room shifted their attention to him. He looked up from the letter, eyes wide and mouth hanging open, as though he had just remembered where he was and who he was with. Recovering quickly, he folded the parchment and shoved it into his coat pocket.

“Excuse me, my dear, but I find that I cannot stand here and listen to any more of this.” He took Hermione’s hand in his, giving it a brief warning squeeze. Her earlier words to him echoed through her head— _shut up._

He turned back to the family, glaring at each of them in turn before engaging in a rapid-fire verbal attack.

To Bellatrix: “You have _not_ been good to her. In fact, you’ve treated her like shit.” 

To Andromeda: “You have doubled-down on that treatment to try and steal back the fortune you _lost._ ” 

To Narcissa: “The fortune Albus clearly wanted _her_ to have.” 

And to Lucius: “The fortune she _deserves._ ”

Hermione risked a glance at them from the corner of her eye. The reactions of the Black sisters ranged from gobsmacked to resigned. But Lucius— 

Lucius was seething.

He strode forward, cheeks flushed and teeth bared, looking a bit like a charging, rabid erumpet. Draco’s eyes darted back and forth between Lucius and Hermione, face hardening as he stepped in his father’s path.

Lucius growled, drawing his wand from his trouser pocket. “How dare—” 

But before he could complete his attack, he froze, hit with no less than three full body-bind curses from no less than three different wands: namely those of Theo, Pansy, and—surprisingly—Narcissa. 

Draco stepped to the side, not even attempting to stop the forward motion of his father’s immobilized body. Lucius crashed chest-first into a spindly wicker end table, splintering it beyond repair before coming to rest face-down on the carpet. 

Draco moved to stand next to Hermione. He met her eyes, threading his fingers tightly through hers before bringing their joined hands to his lips. Her throat tightened with emotion, eyes misting at his show of support for her. 

Theo continued his tirade as though there had been no interruption. “You’re no better than a nest of nifflers, desperate for treasure. And you’re not normal nifflers—no. Never have I seen nifflers so nasty, so nauseating, so _nefarious.”_ He let out a disgusted sound, stalking toward the Black sisters. “Hermione cared for Albus—as a Healer and as a friend. She spent two years of her life with him—administering his medications, yes—but also selflessly offering him companionship, conversation, camaraderie. And what did you do to her as soon as he was gone?” 

He pointed at Bellatrix. “You denied her closure at his funeral, and insulted her honor.” 

He tapped Lucius’s prone form with the toe of his shoe. “You were loudly, insistently prejudiced against her heritage and background.”

He moved to Andromeda. “You wanted to frame her for his death so you could keep your inheritance.”

He stood in front of Narcissa, angry scowl transforming into a smile. “You’ve actually been lovely. Your son and niece, as well.” Beside Hermione, Draco snorted.

“But the rest of you!” he shouted suddenly, making everyone jump. “You’ve all come after her, wands out, ready to throw her under the Knight Bus so you don’t lose your daddy’s money. Well, I have news for you—you’re out of luck. Hermione has decided to keep the inheritance.”

Bellatrix’s mouth fell open. The blood drained from Andromeda’s face. Narcissa’s brows shot into her hairline. 

“What?” they chorused.

“Whhhtt!?” Lucius screamed into the carpet.

“What?” echoed Hermione, eyes wide with shock.

Theo continued, unfazed as always. “Furthermore, Albus Dumbledore’s death is being ruled a suicide. Our investigation is now closed. Thank you all for coming. Goodbye!”

And with that, he grabbed Hermione’s elbow, dragging her—and by extension Draco, who still held tightly to her hand—out of the room.

< \------------------------------- >

Harry and Pansy followed closely behind Theo, Hermione, and Draco, walking quickly down the hall and back into the library. As had happened so often during this case, Harry felt completely bewildered by the rapidly shifting moods of Private Inspector Theodore Nott.

No sooner had the door shut behind them than Hermione jerked her arm out of Theo’s grasp, pinning him in place with a fierce glare. “Are you going to tell me what the hell all that was about?”

Theo sighed, as though she were being dramatic. “Yes, yes, of course.”

She continued as if he hadn’t spoken. “I just wanted to come clean. Wanted it to be over.” Hermione’s voice shook, lower lip trembling briefly before she bit down on it. Harry frowned, not sure what she was talking about. _Come clean about what, exactly?_ He watched Draco pull her against him, watched her arms wrap tightly around his waist, holding onto him like a lifeline.

Harry turned to Pansy, arching his brows in an unspoken question. She shrugged, but her shrewd eyes narrowed on Theo.

A shudder wracked Hermione’s body. “It’s over, Theo.”

“Hmm. Not quite. _Accio_ medical bag.”

Theo waved his wand lazily, and Hermione’s no-longer-missing medical bag came zooming out from behind a set of bookshelves, landing softly on the sofa. He rummaged through the bag until he found what he was looking for: two small potion bottles.

Hermione whimpered softly. Draco’s hand caressed her cheek, turning her face into his chest. His other hand rested gently—possessively—against her hip. Harry looked away, feeling like an intruder on their tender moment.

Trying to give them some privacy, he moved to stand near the sofa. Watched Theo’s long, graceful fingers carefully trace the labels on the potion bottle. Heard Theo, voice low, murmur an incantation that obscured the labels completely. 

“What are you doing?” Harry asked quietly. 

Theo glanced up at him, expression softening. “Proving a point.” 

He crossed to Hermione. She lifted her head from Draco’s chest, looking miserable. “I told you, Theo. It’s an undeniable fact that I am responsible for Albus’s death.” 

Twin noises of surprise shot out of Harry and Pansy. Theo waved a hand in the air, swatting their concern away. “Yes, you did say that. The strangeness of this case that I spoke to you about earlier—the missing piece—it seems to be filled by your and Albus’s actions on that fateful night.” He held out his palm, in which rested the potion bottles. “But we must look closer.”

Hermione merely stared, eyes locked on the bottles.

Theo nodded at her, providing the silent encouragement she needed. She reached out a tentative, trembling hand and took the vials. Harry watched her roll them between her fingers. The liquid inside caught the late afternoon sunlight streaming in from the windows as it shifted within the vials.

“Which one is Heart Healer?” Theo’s voice was quiet, but intense. Harry fought off a shiver.

Hermione tore her eyes away from the potions, meeting Theo’s gaze. She took a deep breath. And held out the bottle in her right hand.

Theo waved his wand, and the blacked-out labels cleared. The label on the bottle in her extended hand was clearly visible, spelling out the words _Heart Healer_ in neat, gold lettering. 

“How did you know that was the one?”

Her eyes filled with tears. “I just knew.”

Theo grinned. “You knew because there is the slightest, almost imperceptible difference in viscosity between the two potions.” He walked toward her slowly. “You knew because you’ve administered that potion to Albus hundreds of times.” He came to a stop in front of her, gently taking the potion bottle and replacing it with his hand. Harry saw him squeeze her fingers gently, saw her tears spill over as she absorbed his words. “You knew because you are a good Healer.”

She inhaled shakily. “But—”

He cut her off by reaching into the inner pocket of his jacket, withdrawing the bit of parchment he’d been reading during her aborted confession.

“This is the full autopsy report for one Albus Percival Wulfric Brian Dumbledore,” he said, handing it to her. “In it, you’ll find that Albus’s cause of death was _not_ an overdose of your specialized Dreamless Sleep potion. In fact, there was no Dreamless Sleep in his system at all at the time of his death.”

Harry’s eyes went wide, comprehending immediately. Hermione apparently understood, as well, for her knees buckled. Harry stepped quickly toward her to prevent her from falling, but Theo and Draco were quicker. They guided her toward a nearby sofa, and Harry watched her reach for Draco’s hand, gripping it tightly as Theo continued speaking. 

Pansy crossed the room to pick up the parchment, which had slipped from Hermione’s fingers during her near-fall. She unfolded it, eyes scanning quickly over its contents.

“Albus’s cause of death is listed as ‘excessive loss of blood,’” she summarized, glancing up at Harry. “Due to the _Sectumsempra_ curse he performed on himself. It appears his death was a suicide, after all.”

Hermione let out a choked sob, shaking her head frantically. Harry felt for her—throughout this entire investigation, her love for Albus had never been in question. All this time spent believing she’d been responsible for his death must have been nightmare enough. But now? Knowing she _hadn’t_ made a mistake, that Albus _hadn’t_ needed to die? He couldn’t imagine how that must feel. 

His eyes were drawn to Theo, who was now standing just in front of Hermione, a sad smile on his face.

“Hermione, you are guilty of nothing more than a bit of damage to the trellis and some minor theatrics.” 

“Oh my god,” she whispered. “Oh my god, oh my god, _oh my god.”_ Beside her, Draco sat frozen, staring helplessly at her profile as she lowered her head to their joined hands and wept.

Pansy folded the autopsy report slowly. Carefully. Methodically. Only then did she move, handing the folded parchment to Harry before coming to a stop in front of Theo. He met her eyes, holding her stare for several long, uncomfortable moments. When she finally spoke, her voice was deadly calm. “Theo?”

“Yeah, Pans?”

“Are you ready to tell me what the _fuck_ is going on?”

He considered her for a moment, lips pursing in thought. Then he leaned forward to whisper in her ear. As he spoke, her eyes narrowed, then widened. She drew back to search his face. “You’re sure?” At his nod, she swept quickly out of the room.

No one spoke for a long period after she left, so they all jumped when Theo suddenly whirled, his shout echoing through the room. “Why was I hired?”

Harry recovered first, finding his voice. “To find a crime. Perhaps to reverse Albus’s will?”

Theo graced Harry with a fond smile. “Very good, Harry. Yet I was hired _before_ the will was read. The person who hired me must have already known that everything was going to be left to Hermione.”

He started a slow pace back and forth across the library. “But that person must have also known that Hermione would not be able to inherit if she were, in fact, responsible for Albus’s death.” 

He came to a stop in front of Hermione. Harry could almost see her brain whirring rapidly inside her head as she listened. “Someone knew exactly what would happen if Albus was given such a large dose of the Dreamless Sleep potion, Hermione. They switched the labels on the bottles in your medical bag and removed your bezoar. They wanted to expose your ‘crime’ so you couldn’t inherit, but couldn’t reveal _how_ they knew what you’d done.”

“Rosmerta,” Hermione breathed. “I think she was blackmailing me. She sent me the letter, the patronus—and when I found her in Shyverwretch’s, she told me she knew what I did!”

Theo shook his head, turning to pace once more. “Actually, I don’t know that her motivation was blackmail. Pity she’s currently in a coma, or she could tell us.”

“Someone else in the family?” Harry offered, thinking of Bellatrix and Lucius, both facing financial ruin.

Theo shook his head again. He stopped by Harry, reaching out to gently trace his fingers across the back of Harry’s hand. Then he resumed his pacing. “They would have had no reason not to speak up right away.”

He finally came to a stop near the piano, where his part in this whole twisted investigation had begun. He glanced down at the keys, reaching out to plunk a few random notes. “This case is a true tragedy of errors.” He straightened again, gazing out the floor-to-ceiling windows at the manor’s beautifully manicured grounds. 

“Hermione, it won’t be easy to hear this,” he said, his back still to the others. “But there is at least one truly guilty party behind everything. One person who acted with malice, who committed a heinous crime, who was motivated by the selfish intent of keeping their inheritance _and_ sending you to Azkaban.” He paused, milking the last bit of drama and anticipation for all it was worth. “Pansy Parkinson.”

“Pansy Parkinson?” Hermione gasped, mouth falling open in shock.

Theo spun quickly on his heel, perhaps propelled by the force of his eye roll. “No,” he sighed. Raising his voice, he called out, “Pansy!”

The library doors opened. 

Pansy entered. 

Behind her, stepping gingerly across the threshold, was the last person Harry expected to see.

Andromeda Tonks.

It felt as though all of the air had been sucked out of the library. Harry shivered as a sudden chill enveloped the room’s occupants, freezing them in place and robbing them of the ability to speak. 

To describe the expression on Hermione’s face—let alone Draco’s—as stunned would have been an understatement of criminal proportions.

Theo indicated a chair beneath the artful display of weapons—the same one he’d been so taken with on the day he and Harry had first met. Andromeda sat, adjusting the flowing aubergine skirts of her puff-sleeved dress and lifting her chin.

Harry felt Pansy move to stand beside him, both of them watching Andromeda’s face carefully as Theo spoke to her. “Hullo again, Andromeda. Would you be so kind as to—in as much detail as possible, of course—explain to us all why you hired me?”

Andromeda’s eyebrows arched gracefully. “Why—why I hired you? Whatever do you mean?”

A chuckle escaped Theo’s lips. “Oh, of course. How silly of me. Let’s back up to the day of your father’s party. As you lied to us all in our original interview, I took the liberty of using my rather large brain to deduce what really happened during your meeting with your father. I imagine what happened went something like this.”

He flicked his wand, and a scene sprang to life in the air before them—shimmering outlines of Albus and Andromeda, standing in Albus’s office. It was a tricky bit of magic. Harry was rather impressed.

Theo’s Albus spoke first. “You’re out of the will, Andi. You’re all out—every last one of you.”

The real Andromeda looked on in horror while her shimmering figure stood, shaking with emotion. “You can’t do that! You can’t just throw away your fortune!”

“I’m not throwing it away. I’m giving it to Hermione.” Albus smiled, leaning back in his desk chair. “All of it.”

“Your muggleborn Healer?” Andromeda’s voice went shrill. “Father, are you completely insane?”

“On the contrary, Andi. I’m sane for the first time in my life. And there’s nothing you can say or do that will make me change my mind.”

With that, the shimmering figures disappeared. Theo smiled pleasantly at Andromeda, waiting patiently for her reaction. 

Harry watched her swallow, as though something were lodged in her throat. Watched her rub her palms against her skirts, as though they were damp with perspiration. Watched her eyes dart to himself, to Pansy, to Theo, to Draco, to Hermione. 

Finally, she let out a nervous giggle. “That’s some serious conjecture, Mr. Nott.”

Theo nodded. “You’re right, of course. But it’s the only thing that makes sense.” 

Her chest rose and fell rapidly. Theo stepped out of the seating area to stand behind Andromeda, beginning a slow circle around the room as he spoke. 

“You were the only one who knew Albus planned to change his will _before_ the night of his party. That he was going to leave everything not to his family, but to his Healer.”

He paused behind Harry and Pansy, peering between their heads at Andromeda. The blood had drained from her face, rendering her white as a ghost. He pressed on.

“You were the only one who would have had time—and opportunity—to do something to prevent the loss of your inheritance. The only one who was here, at the manor, with access to Hermione’s medical bag. Who, in fact, had enough knowledge of ‘all-natural potions’ and ‘holistic healing’ to ensure that your father— _your father,”_ he repeated forcefully, startling a gasp from Andromeda and a hum of understanding from Pansy, “despite being clear in his wishes to leave everything to Hermione, would have his new will challenged and revoked by the slayer rule. A quick switch of the labels and removal of the life-saving bezoar was all it took.”

Theo now stood behind Draco and Hermione, who had both turned to stare at him as he spoke. Theo leaned on the back of their shared sofa, and Harry marveled at his ability to stay so calm in the midst of this unbearable tension. “You were the one who desperately needed money, who had, in fact, been stealing from your father for years. But what I can’t figure out is _why.”_

Andromeda shifted uncomfortably in her chair.

“What did you do with all that money?” Theo continued, stalking toward Andromeda with panther-like grace. “It certainly wasn’t used to promote DROM—that sad excuse for a newsletter barely has any subscribers. You live in a flat in London, dress in your sister’s gifted clothes...so what have you been doing with all the money you stole from your father?”

He completed his circle as he spoke, coming to a stop directly in front of her. Harry’s eyes shifted from Theo’s back to Andromeda’s face. Beads of sweat covered her forehead. Her pupils were dilated. Her lower lip trembled uncontrollably. Theo knelt before her, lowering his voice to a gentle murmur. 

“What made you so desperate about losing your inheritance that you’d kill your own father?”

Draco sucked in a sharp breath. Hermione covered her mouth with both hands, looking horrified. Beside Harry, Pansy leaned forward in anticipation: an eager spectator to an imminent trainwreck.

A sob wrenched itself from between Andromeda’s lips, and she doubled over as if in pain. Her rich auburn hair fell in waves about her shoulders, shimmering in the light as her body was wracked by some strong emotion—grief, regret, fear, anger—Harry didn’t know which.

Theo remained calm, patiently waiting for her to answer him.

“It wasn’t for—for me,” she said between sobs, voice broken and haunted. “It—it was for _her.”_

“For your daughter?”

Andromeda shook her head. “No, not for Nymphadora.” She lifted her head. Her lips twisted into a tortured grimace, the sight of which unnerved Harry. “Although everything I’ve done, I’ve done to protect her.”

Theo stood slowly. Harry watched his expression undergo a transformation, shifting toward uncertainty. “If not for your daughter, then who did you do it for?”

Andromeda trembled, but Harry could almost see her reach deep within herself, summoning every ounce of strength and courage she possessed. When she spoke again, her voice was fiery. Determined. Resolute. 

“Pomona. Pomona Sprout.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> FINALLY, THE TRUTH IS REVEALED!! I will post Chapter Nine literally as soon as it's finished and beta'd, because I know (read: hope) you're dying to know more!
> 
> A big thank you, as always, to mightbewriting and granger_danger. May their mantels be beautifully decorated and their apparition points safe.


	9. The Fallout

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The truth is revealed. About everything.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Trigger Warning: There are mentions of domestic abuse in this chapter. Nothing graphic or too detailed, but it is there. Please take care and proceed with caution.

“Pomona. Pomona Sprout.”

Andromeda’s words hung, suspended in mid-air, freezing the room as effectively as an _Immobulus_ charm.

Hermione’s stomach flipped and she shook her head, sure she’d misheard. After all, she was still reeling from the shock of the autopsy report, followed by the subsequent shock of finding out that Andromeda was somehow involved with Albus’s death. 

Pansy was the first to recover. “Pomona Sprout, the gardener?”

Andromeda laughed, the sound bitter to Hermione’s ears. “The gardener, yes. The gardener who worked for my parents—my birth parents. The gardener who gained my trust when I was a child, who has used that trust to manipulate me every day since.”

“Manipulate you how?” Pansy asked, frowning.

Andromeda lifted her head. “It’s easier if I show you.” She turned to Draco. “Do you remember where the Pensieve is kept?” 

Draco nodded, standing swiftly and striding from the room. He returned moments later, setting the heavy Pensieve on the low coffee table before resuming his place at Hermione’s side. She squeezed his hand, grateful for his steady presence.

Andromeda straightened her spine, squared her shoulders, and drew her wand. Placing it to her temple, she spun it slowly, teasing the gossamer strands of memory out in careful spirals before depositing them into the Pensieve.

When she finished, everyone moved closer, drawn like magnets to the bowl’s swirling depths. 

Hermione caught herself and stepped back, placing a hand on Draco’s arm. She badly wanted to see Andromeda’s memories, of course, but wasn’t sure they’d be allowed. After all, they weren’t part of the investigative team. 

Andromeda turned to look at Hermione, face set in grim determination. “Please,” she said, extending her hand toward them. “You both deserve to know the truth, as well.”

Hermione looked up at Draco, who shrugged; at Theo, who nodded. Draco took her hand and they joined the others gathered around the rim of the large Pensieve.

“Ready?” Theo asked. A slow wave of nods rippled around the circle. Then, moving as one, they leaned in, sinking instantly into memories of the past. 

< \------------------------------- >

They landed in the English countryside—somewhere in the Lake District, if Hermione had to guess, based on the rolling green hills and thick mist hovering on the morning air. A manor house loomed in front of them, its gray stone walls covered with tangled, creeping vines. 

Hermione felt uneasy, off balance, as though she’d missed a step on a staircase. Around her, the others seemed on edge as well. Draco pressed close to her, hand hovering near her waist, like he wanted to touch her but was too nervous to actually make contact. Pansy and Harry stood, backs together, eyes darting about their surroundings. Theo stayed close to Andromeda, a hand on her elbow, either in support or an abundance of caution.

Suddenly, the memory exploded in a cacophony of sound. Hermione flinched, turning toward the large manor house.

Somewhere within, a man was shouting. His voice was slurred—with anger, drink, or some combination of the two. Then came the sound of glass breaking, followed almost immediately by a woman screaming. A door slammed, and running footsteps pounded toward them.

A young girl appeared, auburn braids flying behind her as she ran across the lawns. Tears streamed down her face—a face immediately recognizable as a younger version of Andromeda. 

Hermione and the others followed the girl toward a large greenhouse. In the memory, Andromeda ducked beneath the blooming wisteria vines that covered the building’s exterior, running quickly past potted shrivelfigs and wiggentrees. When she came to a section of the greenhouse that housed several rows of orchids, she sat on the ground and pulled her knees up to her chest. Crossing her arms on top of them, she lowered her head and cried.

“This was my sanctuary,” adult-Andromeda said sadly, startling Hermione. She’d been so caught up in watching the little girl that she’d quite forgotten the grown-up version was there with her. “It was lovely here. So beautiful, so warm. So quiet, so safe.”

At her side, Draco shifted. When he spoke, his voice was soft. “Safe?”

Andromeda smiled sadly at her nephew. “For a while, at least.”

Just then, a much-younger Pomona Sprout breezed past them all, causing Theo to leap dramatically out of her way. Andromeda stiffened beside him, clutching his arm.

“Oh!” Pomona said, seeing young Andromeda huddled beneath the orchids. “Oh, my dear. Is it your father again?” She approached the young girl, kneeling down in front of her.

Young Andromeda nodded. Out of the corner of her eye, Hermione saw the adult Andromeda nod, as well.

“I a-accidentally knocked over his telescope in the study. I think I b-broke it,” young Andromeda managed between sniffles. “Mama told me to keep my mouth shut—that she’d tell him _she_ did it. Then she told me to—told me to run.” She covered her face with her hands, dissolving once more into tears. “I barely got to the door before the yelling started. And then—then—I heard him hitting her. Heard her crying.”

Pomona moved to sit next to Andromeda, stroking her hair as she cried. “Has he been drinking again?”

Andromeda nodded miserably, great shuddering sobs wracking her narrow shoulders. 

Abruptly, the scene changed. They were still in the greenhouse, but now Andromeda was a bit older, a bit taller. Instead of tears, angry fire blazed in her eyes.

“It’s worse than ever,” she said to Pomona, who sat at a nearby bench trimming a mimbulus mimbletonia. “Bella and I have to constantly walk on eggshells around him. The littlest mistake sets him off, and then Mama turns up to breakfast the next morning with a black eye or her arm in a sling. I”—she broke off, releasing a shuddering breath—“I’m afraid he’s going to kill her one day.”

Pomona made a soft tutting noise of disapproval, turning to face Andromeda more fully. “I am so sorry, dear. I know I’ve told you many times that my own father was a drunk. A brute, as well. I remember feeling so helpless when I was your age.”

Andromeda moved to stand in front of her, carefully searching her face. “What happened to him?”

“My father?” Pomona asked, a dreamy look appearing on her face. “Oh, he’s long dead now. Had a bit of an—accident—one day.”

“What kind of accident?”

Pomona smiled. Hermione felt a cold shiver track down her spine. Out of the corner of her eye she saw the others leaning in, faces rapt as they listened to the gardener’s words.

“Well,” she said. “He was always underestimating muggle plants. Didn’t realize that some are just as dangerous, just as deadly as their magical counterparts.” She laughed, an eerie, disjointed sound. “He drank some tea made with leaves from such a tree. Grew terribly ill. Died within hours—before my mum even had time to Floo him to St. Mungo’s.”

“What kind of tree?” Andromeda asked, voice barely louder than a whisper.

“Oh?” Pomona asked, as though waking up from a pleasant dream. “Oh, yes, the tree. It was an English yew.”

Andromeda’s younger self turned, eyes lifting slowly to Pomona’s face. “You wouldn’t still have access to yew leaves...would you?”

Pomona smiled once more. Hermione was reminded of the stretching, haunted grin of a jack-o-lantern. Pomona reached out to place a thick-fingered hand on Andromeda’s shoulder. “Of course I would, dear.”

The scene changed again, and now they no longer stood in the greenhouse, or at the Black family estate at all, as far as Hermione could tell. Now they were in a small, dingy flat. Pomona sat in a threadbare chair near the hearth, lips pressed into a thin line of displeasure as Andromeda paced before her, manic. 

The real Andromeda whimpered, lifting a trembling hand to cover her eyes.

“How could this have happened?” memory Andromeda was saying, voice wavering with the force of her body’s involuntary shudders. “You said you would brew the tea. Obliviate the house elf who delivered it to my father in his study while my mother was out. Then set a controlled fire—large enough to destroy the evidence and the body, but small enough that it could be easily extinguished. So how could this have happened?” 

She tossed a copy of The Daily Prophet onto Pomona’s lap. Hermione and the others moved closer until they could clearly make out the headline: _BLACK FAMILY MANOR BURNS TO THE GROUND: Both Mr. and Mrs. Black Perish in the Blaze._

“I know this is unfortunate, dear—”

“Unfortunate? _Unfortunate?_ ” Andromeda shrieked, eyes wild in the firelight. “My mother is _dead._ All she ever did was protect me and my sisters, and when I tried to save her—to protect her—I end up—she’s—” She stopped abruptly, an agonized sob tearing from her throat as she sank to the floor. 

Pomona made no move to comfort her. “There, there,” she said in a cool, empty voice. “Everything was going according to plan until your mother returned home earlier than expected. I didn’t know she was there when I set the blaze. It’s—” she paused, stroking her fleshy cheek as she appeared to search for the right word, “—a tragedy, to be sure.”

The scene changed again. 

Now they were in a greenhouse once more, but not the one from Andromeda’s earlier memories. No, now they were on Albus’s property, and Andromeda was older again—perhaps seventeen. She stood across a table from Pomona, eyes narrowed at the older woman.

“What do you mean, you need money? I don’t have any to give you.”

Pomona _tsk’ed_ softly, another eerie smile spreading across her round face. “Well now, my dear, that isn’t quite true. I am well aware of the inheritance you received after your parents’ tragic deaths.” She stood, walking around the table’s edge, only stopping when she was close enough to Andromeda to tuck a stray piece of hair behind her ear. For most people, such a gesture would be seen as maternal. Here, between Pomona and Andromeda, it was nothing short of menacing.

“You know,” Pomona continued, smile widening as Andromeda shifted uncomfortably. “It would be such a shame if someone were to find out that you were the one responsible for your father’s death—for _both_ your parents’ deaths, come to think of it.”

“No,” Andromeda whispered, backing away slowly. “I—I wasn’t.”

Pomona followed, a cat stalking a mouse. 

“I could, of course, provide a memory as evidence if the Aurors didn’t believe that a sweet, innocent girl would do such a thing. Could even offer to take Veritaserum and tell them how you asked me about the yew leaves, instructed me to brew the poisonous tea, directed me in every step of the murderous plan that killed your parents.”

Tears filled Andromeda’s eyes. She shook her head, and one spilled over, tracking down her cheek and into the corner of her mouth. Her lips trembled uncontrollably.

“N-no,” she managed shakily. “I’ll get you the money you need. It’ll be no trouble at all.”

The memories moved faster after that. There were dozens of them, all repeating the same basic pattern.

A pregnant Andromeda, threatened with having her baby taken away when the Aurors found out what she’d done. Instead, she’d agreed to pay Pomona.

A grieving widow, manipulated by an increasingly bold Pomona to hand over even more galleons. She’d agreed to tell Albus she needed money to settle her late husband’s debts.

An older Andromeda, with pictures of Tonks in her Hogwarts uniform waving cheerily from their place on the mantel in her small flat. Pomona stood over her, berating and threatening her even as she demanded more money.

It was exhausting to watch. The trauma, abuse, and manipulation that Andromeda had experienced—first from her birth father, then from her parents’ deaths, and then over such an extended period of time from Pomona—was more than Hermione could fathom. Indeed, it seemed too much for Andromeda to re-live, as she’d given up watching and instead had her face buried against Theo’s shoulder. Hermione looked around at the others, saw similar expressions of disgust and despair.

When the memories finally spun in a tell-tale sign that their time in the Pensieve had concluded, Hermione nearly wept with relief.

< \------------------------------- >

They returned to the library with a jolt. Harry felt a bit like he had the first time he’d ridden a broom—like he was on the verge of either crying or throwing up. Andromeda’s trauma, her fear, her pain...it had all been so visceral, even when experienced through memory.

Andromeda slipped bonelessly from the sofa, falling to her knees on the plush carpet. Pansy and Harry moved together, grasping her by the elbows and assisting her back up. Pansy stayed nearby, crouching down and murmuring softly to Andromeda. Harry knew his partner had experienced her own share of parental trauma as a child, so left the two of them alone to talk. 

Instead, he strode over to Theo, who’d moved away from the seating area, as though he too needed space from the memories they’d all just witnessed. From the corner of his eye, he noticed Hermione and Draco taking their seats on the sofa next to Andromeda. Draco reached out, taking his aunt’s trembling hand in both of his, murmuring to her softly.

“All those years...I never knew. I’m so sorry.”

Harry saw Andromeda smile sadly. “No one did. Not even Father,” she said, and Harry was sure she meant Albus. “Pomona was so good at appearing kind. Boring. A little odd, but by no means the evil, manipulative witch she truly is.”

Theo made a sympathetic noise, drawing both Harry and Andromeda’s eyes to him. “Can you tell us what happened the day of the party? After Albus told you about the change to his will?”

She nodded. “That day, after we spoke in his office—it was the strangest feeling. I was terrified, but also felt free for the first time in so very, very long. I went straight to the greenhouses. I told Pomona that my money would soon be gone, as Father was changing his will and leaving everything to Hermione. Told her that she’d have to find someone else to blackmail. She was furious—angrier than I’ve ever seen her. She said she would take care of it.”

Hermione made a strangled noise. Andromeda turned to her, face naked with pleading—for understanding, or maybe for forgiveness.

“I swear, Hermione, I didn’t want her to hurt him. I—I begged her to leave him alone, to not do anything hasty, b-but she—she wouldn’t listen. I hired Theo because I didn’t want her to get away with it—and even then, I thought she might. Gods, I hate her.” She dropped her forehead into her hands and cried, looking so much like the small, scared young girl in the greenhouse memory, seeking sanctuary beneath the orchids. 

Theo stepped into the wake of her words, re-taking control of the room. “This is indeed a tangled web. Much like that of an acromantula.” He paused, a thoughtful look appearing on his face. “Quite appropriate, that analogy. Did you know that acromantulas were first bred by wizards to guard their treasure? And that in addition to being a cannibalistic species, they also developed a taste for human flesh? They’re enormous beasts, with legs that can grow up to fifteen feet in length. Quite terrifying, really, especially when you take into account the size of their pincers—”

Harry took Theo’s hand in his. Immediately, Theo’s eyes cleared, re-focusing on Harry’s face. “Thank you, Harry. Sometimes I get rather trapped in my own mind.”

Harry smiled, letting go. “I’m sure it’s quite a fantastical place. You were saying this case is like a tangled web…” 

“Ah, yes. And we’re not finished untangling it. What we need to do now is speak to the woman in question: Pomona Sprout.”

“I’ll find her.” Harry turned to leave, drawing his wand, but halted at the sound of his name on Theo’s lips. Harry turned to find hazel eyes on his, serious and searching. 

“Would you like to come with me?” Harry asked quietly. 

Theo shook his head. “I think I should stay with Andromeda. Bring in the others and catch them up on what happened. But—be careful, will you?” He squeezed Harry’s hand tightly, appearing reluctant to let it go—to let _him_ go. His eyes searched Harry’s face, as though memorizing his features. “Pomona is dangerous. Manipulative. Sneaky. She’s like a vampire chameleon—or maybe a chameleon vampire—lulling people into a sense of safety with her ability to blend into her surroundings and appear non-threatening. And then, when the time is right, she strikes!” He smacked his free hand against his thigh, startling Harry. “Latches onto her host and bleeds them dry.”

“I’ll be careful,” Harry said. Then, seeing that the others were no longer watching them, he leaned forward, pressing a kiss against Theo’s smooth jaw. “For you.”

To Harry’s very great surprise—not to mention pleasure—Theo flushed. “And I’ll be waiting,” he finally said, holding Harry’s gaze with enough intensity to make his heart beat faster. “For you.”

Harry nodded, signalling to Pansy on his way out of the library doors.

They headed out of the manor and across the wide lawns. The thick, wet grass muffled their footsteps as they walked toward the greenhouse. Harry glanced over at his partner, taking in her furrowed brow and downcast eyes.

“Sickle for your thoughts, Pans?”

She sighed, but allowed him a small smile. “Trying to charm your way back into my good graces, partner?”

He shrugged and bumped her shoulder lightly with his. “I’m sorry about earlier. You know I’m absolute rubbish without you.”

“True,” she drawled, but reached out, looping her hand around his elbow. After a few dozen silent steps, she pulled him to a stop, turning to face him. “Look, Harry. I know we don’t really have time for this, but I have to say it. I know you’ve had a hard, lonely life. I want nothing more— _nothing more,”_ she emphasized forcefully when he dropped his gaze to the ground, “than for you to find love, to be happy. And I’d have to be fucking blind not to see the sparks between you and Theo. I just—I need to know that when we’re on the job, when we’re on this job, where the potential for distraction is so high, that you’ll have my back. That I can count on my partner to keep me safe.”

Her eyes shone, full of tears that she’d rather die than let fall, Harry knew. “Pansy Lavinia Parkinson,” he said, voice low and warm, “I promise you that I will never stop having your back. That I will do everything in my power and skill—which is so pitifully, embarrassingly sad compared to yours, by the way—to be a better partner to you, and a better Auror to all. Do you forgive me for running off without you earlier? For thinking with my, erm…” He broke off, embarrassed.

“With your cock?”

He flushed. Nodded. Opened his arms in invitation.

She sighed, stepping into him and allowing him to hug her. He imagined this must be what zookeepers and dragon tamers felt like: so fond of the fierce creatures they worked with, but always a little bit afraid.

“I truly hate that you know my middle name,” Pansy said into the lapel of his jacket.

He chuckled, letting go of her as she stepped away from him, smiling as she took his elbow once more. “But it’s so lovely.”

“Shut up.”

They walked on, the greenhouse coming into sharp focus before them. Pansy dropped Harry’s arm, all business now that the task was at hand. “Ready?”

He nodded. “Let’s get her.”

The woman in question looked nothing like the evil blackmailer they’d seen in Andromeda’s memories. She sat bent over a potting bench, gray hair falling into her eyes as she carefully transplanted a bit of wolfsbane. A cup of tea sat at her elbow, steam curling slowly from its surface. She was the very picture of a kind, elderly spinster.

But Harry knew from experience that people were not always what they seemed.

“Ms. Sprout?” Pansy asked, voice casual but hand resting on her wand in its hip holster. “Sorry to trouble you again. Would you mind joining us in the library for a final round of questions?”

“Oh?” Pomona stood, brushing potting soil off the front of her robes. “Oh, of course, Auror Parkinson. Anything to help the investigation.” She drained her tea, removed her gloves, and followed Pansy out the door.

Harry trailed behind them on their way back to the main house, wand drawn and at the ready, eyes trained on Pomona Sprout. He meant what he’d said to Pansy earlier: he was determined to keep her safe, to literally watch her back. If Pomona tried anything, if she even looked at Pansy the wrong way, he’d disarm her.

He sighed. Okay, he’d probably stun her, earlier lecture from Hermione Granger be damned. No one was going to fuck with his partner.

< \------------------------------- >

In the library, Hermione fidgeted nervously on the sofa next to Draco and Tonks. Theo had brought in the rest of the Black family shortly after Harry and Pansy left, claiming they had a right to know the truth. With Andromeda’s permission, they’d all viewed her memories, heads disappearing into the Pensieve as she wept quietly on the sofa across from Draco and Hermione. 

When Andromeda’s sisters and daughter came out of the Pensieve, they sat mutely—faces white, mouths open in shock, tears trailing down their angular cheeks—before all speaking at once.

“—I never knew how bad things were between them. I was so young—”

“Oh gods, Andi, all these years you blamed yourself for Mama—”

“—I can’t believe that monster threatened to have me taken away from you before I was even born—”

It went on like that for a while, all of them crying and talking and trying to make sense of the reality of Andromeda’s life for the past forty years. Of the truth of what exactly had happened to Albus, and _why._

Now, Bellatrix and Narcissa sat on either side of Andromeda, each of them holding one of her hands. Tonks sat with Draco and Hermione, hair fluctuating between a deep emerald green and a pulsing purple and eyes sparking angrily. 

The library doors opened, and Pansy stepped through. A horrible sense of déjà vu gripped Hermione as Pomona entered, Harry following behind. Just across the threshold, she froze, eyes widening and darting madly between Andromeda and Hermione. Hermione could almost see her putting the pieces together in her mind, and suppressed a shiver as she watched the placid calm slowly melt from Pomona’s features. 

Her mouth fell open in shock. That shock quickly transformed into rage, face twisting into an ugly sneer. She made a strangled sound, lurching forward toward Andromeda. 

Pansy spun quickly, pressing the tip of her wand against the older woman’s chest. “I don’t think so.” Harry edged closer to Pomona, mimicking Pansy’s posture and pressing his own wand between her shoulder blades. 

Theo, who had been lounging against Albus’s desk, moved to stand just behind Pansy. He smiled, a creeping spread of lips and teeth that did not meet his eyes. 

“Pomona, dear, how lovely to see you again. Won’t you please join us all for a chat?”

Tension vibrated through Pomona’s stout body. “Whatever she told you, it’s a lie.” Her voice wavered, sounding less like the mild-mannered gardener Hermione had always known and more like a cornered animal, nervous and desperate to escape. 

“Whatever do you mean?” Theo said, lips quirking into a smirk. “Who would have told us anything?”

“Her.” Pomona jerked her head toward Andromeda, who shrank back into the sofa’s cushions under the force of the other woman’s glare. 

“Just what do you suppose she told us?”

Pomona made a strange, hissing sound. “Lies about me. About her parents. About Dumbledore. Desperate lies from a pathetic woman, designed to blame me for her many failures.”

Bellatrix spat her own venom at Pomona. “ _You_ are the liar, Sprout.” She leaned forward, adopting a protective posture in front of her sister. 

“Yes, Ms. Black, thank you for reminding me,” Theo said, nodding at Pansy. She jerked her wand at Pomona, directing her to the library’s place of honor: a chair beneath the display of Albus’s fictional muggle murder weapons. Pansy and Harry moved into position on either side of Pomona, wands pressed against the delicate skin of her throat. 

Theo began a slow pace back and forth in front of Pomona’s chair. “Now, Pomona. We would all love to hear about what happened on the day of Albus’s birthday party.”

“I’ve already told you what happened.”

“Ah, yes. Yes you have. The truth this time, if you please.”

She narrowed her eyes, but said nothing. 

“Hmm. I was afraid of that,” Theo said, heaving a deep, weary sigh. “Harry?”

Harry arched a brow at his—well, Hermione wasn’t exactly sure what Theo was to him, but she was sure it was more than a mere co-worker. 

Theo carried on, unburdened by Hermione’s ill-timed curiosity about his relationships. “Would you happen to have any Veritaserum on you?”

Harry nodded. “Always carry a bit with me.”

In her chair, Pomona began to struggle. Pansy’s wand pressed into her carotid artery, and she stilled. “If you think I’m ingesting anything from that bloody moron, you have lost your gods-damned mind.”

“Language, dear Pomona,” Theo chided softly, pressing a hand to his chest in faux shock.

Harry removed a small bottle of Veritaserum from his hip holster. In one smooth motion, he unstoppered the bottle with his thumb. Pomona pressed her lips tightly together, jaw set in a mutinous line. Hermione watched Pansy grasp Pomona’s hair in one fist, tilting her head back and leaning in to whisper quietly—but forcefully—into her ear. Hermione couldn’t begin to guess what she said, but whatever it was, it was effective: Pomona’s eyes widened and her mouth went slack. 

Immediately, Harry tipped the bottle, pouring its contents down her throat. 

Theo, meanwhile, continued his pacing, giving the potion time to take effect. Hermione glanced about the room. Everyone’s eyes were glued to Theo, aside from Pansy, who had released her grip on Pomona’s hair but maintained her defensive stance, wand at the ready.

Theo preened under the attention, reminding Hermione of a strutting peacock. She watched him catch Harry’s eye and wink, the corners of his mouth lifting in a flirtatious smile. Despite the tension in the room, she felt her heart warm.

Finally, after a few more dramatic turns, Theo spoke.

“Now, let’s try this again. We already know that Albus told Andromeda he was leaving everything to Hermione on the day of his birthday party. We know that she came to you, as you’d been extorting money from her for oh...four decades, give or take a few years?” He turned to Andromeda, who nodded morosely.

“So,” he said, coming to a stop directly in front of Pomona. He leaned forward to place his hands on the arms of her chair. “What happened then?”

“I decided to kill him.” The simple statement, spoken with such cold nonchalance, sent a shockwave through Hermione’s chest. 

Apparently it had a similar effect on Bellatrix and Narcissa, as they both lurched forward in their seats, an angry hissing sound escaping from between Bellatrix’s bared teeth. Harry moved to stand between the Black sisters and Pomona, prepared to stop them from hexing her before she could tell them the rest of the terrible truth. Theo straightened, ready to do the same.

“I knew she wouldn’t help me,” Pomona continued, face contorting as the words spilled out against her will. “So I did it myself. Just like I did all her other dirty work. I did it during the birthday party—the birthday party I wasn’t invited to, unlike the other help. Just another slight on the part of the perfect Black bitches.”

Hermione gasped softly at the slur, hand flying up to cover her mouth. If Pomona heard the sound, she gave no indication, barreling forward in her confession.

“I used a broom to fly up to the trick window on the third floor. Climbed in and found the mudblood’s medical bag.” 

Another noise came from the sofa—this time an angry growl from Draco. Hermione placed her hand on his knee, squeezing in an effort to simultaneously comfort and warn.

“I knew the medications that Albus took. Knew because the stupid old git told me. Always too trusting, that man. It barely took me a moment to switch the labels on the bottles and pocket the bezoar. Then I went back down the way I came. Later that night I tried to sneak back up to switch the labels back, but that gods-damned beast of Hagrid’s tried to rip my throat out, so I wasn’t able to.”

“That’s why Fang was barking that night,” Tonks interrupted, sitting forward. 

Theo gave her a brief nod, then pressed on with his questioning. “What did you think the next morning? When there wasn’t news of a murdered patriarch and guilty healer, but of a _Sectumsempra_ suicide?”

Pomona snarled. “Well, I was obviously confused. Wasn’t sure what had happened, or how.”

“Quite,” Theo allowed. “So the body was discovered, the Aurors were called, a funeral was held. A funeral you were also not invited to, as you were not family. Is that correct?”

A nod.

“And then, unbeknownst to you, Andromeda hired _me._ ” Theo grinned, resuming his slow pace in front of Pomona’s chair. “She’d finally had enough of your bullying, wanted you to pay for all the pain you’d caused over the years. That must have thrown you for quite a loop.”

“It was...unfortunate, yes.” She hunched down in her chair, a deep vertical line appearing between her brows. “But as for the funeral—not being invited worked in my favor. I was able to enter the manor when no one was home. I went up to Albus’s room to get the bag, but heard a noise. I didn’t want to risk getting caught, so I grabbed the bag and left. Once I was safely back in the greenhouse, I switched the labels back and returned the bezoar.”

That’s where her bag had been, Hermione realized. This whole time, it had been just a few metres away, in the greenhouse, in Pomona’s possession.

Theo raised a brow. “But you didn’t know that Rosmerta was here that day, as well. That she saw you sneaking up the stairs, that she followed you, that she saw you rooting around in Hermione’s medical bag and grew suspicious.”

“Rosmerta is a stupid cunt and everyone knows it,” Pomona shouted, spittle flying from between her lips. 

Hermione recoiled. She’d known there was no love lost between the two women, but didn’t realize the true depths of Pomona’s hatred for the housekeeper.

“She thinks she’s so smart, with her crossword puzzles and her cousin who works in the Ministry—”

Theo interrupted, a knowing smirk on his face. “The cousin who was able to get her Albus’s autopsy report. Which she used to threaten you. She loved Albus and hated you—wanted to find out what your part in all this was and make you pay.”

Pomona’s mouth stretched into a twisted smile. “Well, I showed her.” 

A chill worked its way through Hermione, making her shiver. 

“I showed her what happens when you mess with Pomona Sprout. Always underestimated, always overlooked—by my father, by Cygnus and Druella Black, by Albus Dumbledore, by _everyone._ But Rosmerta learned the hard way, just like others. I made her a nice cup of tea and set her straight.”

Hermione sat forward, something niggling its way through her mind.

“I made a copy of the letter she sent me with the autopsy report, which she didn’t even realize exonerated the mudblood. I cut out the bits where she specifically mentioned me, then sent it on to Hermione. I realized I could still use her to my advantage, as she’d be too drunk on Draco’s cock to think clearly.”

Beside her, Draco tensed. Hermione gave his knee another warning squeeze. Her hateful words didn’t matter. The truth did. 

She continued on. “I snuck into the Ministry and destroyed the original copy of the report. Met Rosmerta at our designated location, where she accused me of having something to do with Albus’s death and threatened to tell the Aurors and make me pay. She thought I’d poisoned Albus—it’s why she got her grubby hands on a copy of the autopsy report. You see, I once made the mistake of telling Hagrid about how poisonous the yew trees on this property were after one too many butterbeers at a Christmas party. Rosmerta overheard me.”

“But you didn’t poison Albus, did you?” Theo asked, drumming his fingers against his thigh.

She shook her head. “Didn’t have time for that. But Rosmerta knew too much, was too suspicious. So I stunned her, tied her up, and poured the tea down her throat.” 

Against her will, Hermione thought of the scene in the potion shop earlier that day—Rosmerta’s rolling eyes, strangled voice, seizing muscles. Now that she had context for Rosmerta’s symptoms, they all spoke so clearly of poisoning. 

_Poison._ The pieces clicked into place in Hermione’s mind. She stood, quickly crossing to Theo. Placing a hand on his arm, she drew his attention to her.

“Do you still have the plant cutting that was with Rosmerta’s letter?”

He nodded, reaching into his trouser pocket and withdrawing what Hermione had originally thought was a sprig of pine. She closed her hand over his, bending close and inhaling carefully. 

“This is yew,” Hermione’s spoke quietly, but her voice carried in the deathly silent library. “I thought it was pine at first, but it’s not. It’s yew. Rosmerta—she spoke to me in the shop before losing consciousness. I thought she said ‘It was you.’” She turned, glaring down at Pomona. “But that’s not what she said, was it? She didn’t say ‘It was _you’_...she said ‘It was _yew.’”_

Pomona scowled, then ducked her chin in an angry nod. 

“What happened next?” Theo asked her.

Pomona’s voice grew louder, careening about the room like a railway car off the tracks as she built up momentum in her forced confession. “I sent my Patronus to Hermione—which would have been a risk if anyone had ever paid the slightest fucking attention to me—and instructed her to come to meet ‘me.’”

“To frame her for Rosmerta’s murder?” Theo asked. “Make us suspect her for Albus’s, as well?” 

“Kill two bints with one stone.” She turned to glare at Hermione, and Hermione’s heart seized at the pure hatred in her eyes. “But of course the stupid mudblood had to be noble and take Rosmerta to St. Mungo’s.” 

“A true tragedy for you, to be sure,” Theo said, waving his hand lazily through the air. He let it fall on Hermione’s shoulder, a gentle, supportive touch. “Our Hermione has a quick mind and a kind heart. She saved Rosmerta rather than letting her die, even though she thought Rosmerta knew about her supposed mistake. Then she gave me Rosmerta’s stashed copy of the autopsy report—which I take it you didn’t know about—despite the risk to her freedom. To her inheritance. To...everything.”

He didn’t mention Draco’s name, but Hermione’s eyes were drawn to him nonetheless. She was aware of his entire family looking at her, could feel their eyes boring into her. 

But she could only see him. 

He met her gaze steadily, and a thrill ran through her at what she saw on his face: unashamed, unafraid, unwavering devotion.

So consumed was she by her attempts to decipher the exact degree of tenderness in the depths of his silver eyes that she was caught by surprise by a sudden movement in her peripheral vision. 

She heard Theo grunt, Pansy gasp, and Harry curse as Pomona Sprout—suddenly and with great force—launched herself out of her chair.

< \------------------------------- >

At first, Harry thought someone had cast an _Arresto Momentum_ on Pomona. Time seemed to move in slow motion as the gardener stood, twisting in place to drive the heel of her hand up into Pansy’s nose.

There was a sickening crunch, and then time sped back up as Pansy staggered back, blood streaming down her face. Her free hand rose to clutch blindly at her injured nose. 

From his place on her other side, Harry watched in horror as Pomona reached above her head, grabbing one of the wands from the display and turning it on Pansy.

“ _Avada Kedav—_ ” she screamed. Harry didn’t even stop to think—he dove. His thick skull—ironically, something that Pansy teased him about on a near-daily basis—connected with Pomona’s spine, abruptly cutting off her Killing Curse. His arms locked about her legs, taking her down to the carpet with a loud thud. 

It was a bit like wrestling a chimaera, Harry imagined, wincing as he took an elbow to the temple. He was dimly aware of a flurry of activity in the room around him, but all his energy was focused on the writhing, snarling woman below him. He twisted, pinning her legs beneath his own, using his considerable upper body strength to subdue her until someone finally stunned her. 

He turned to thank the person who’d cast the _Stupefy_ —and found himself looking directly into the fierce, fearless face of Hermione Granger.

“Nice work, Harry,” she offered.

He grinned at her, allowing himself to relax slightly, to slow the adrenaline coursing through his veins. Then he returned his attention to the prone figure below him, needing to secure her for transport to Azkaban before she woke.

A pair of dragonhide boots entered his field of vision, stepping none-too-gently on Pomona’s gnarled hand. “I’ll take this,” Theo’s voice said, and then his long, graceful fingers reached down, plucking the wand from her grip. 

“We’ll need to take that into evidence,” Harry said, using his own wand to place a pair of charmed handcuffs on Pomona’s wrists. “She tried to kill my partner with it.”

“She did, yes.” Theo twirled the wand once, twice, three times around his nimble fingers. “But she would have failed. After all, Harry,” he said, leaning down to speak directly into Harry’s ear, “this isn’t a real wand.”

< \------------------------------- >

Several minutes later, after she’d finally managed to disentangle a giddy Pansy from Harry’s arms, Hermione set to work healing her: setting her nose, administering a pain-relieving potion, and cleaning the blood off her face. 

Harry and Theo hauled Pomona out of the room, Theo mounting only the feeblest of protests when Bellatrix landed a well-aimed kick to her legs on the way. Outside, a team of Aurors that had been summoned by Harry waited to escort her to Azkaban.

Narcissa sat at Albus’s desk, fiddling with a device Hermione recognized as a cryptex—one of Albus’s favorite toys. She shifted the device in her hands, its silver dials flashing in the light as she spun them. Draco stood quietly behind her. 

Hermione felt his eyes on her, but didn’t trust herself to look at him until she finished with Pansy’s care.

Pansy had no such reservations, eyes moving gleefully back and forth between the two. When Hermione finally closed her medical bag, sitting up and straightening her clothing, Pansy snorted. “I’m fine now, Granger. You can go to him.”

Hermione flushed. “I will. Eventually.”

“Listen.” Pansy leaned toward her, white teeth flashing in a predatory smile. “That man has it bad. He ran off with you, defended you, _confessed to a murder for you._ And he did all that when he thought you were responsible for his grandfather’s death.”

“Believe me, I know.”

“Well, so what are you waiting for? If he cared enough about you to do those things then...imagine how he feels now.” She leaned back and crossed her arms, a superior look on her face. 

Hermione sighed and dropped her gaze to her lap. Watching her fingers twist her clothing into knots was easier than thinking about the emotions doing the same to her heart. “It’s just—it’s complicated.”

“Only if you let it be.”

Hermione risked a glance across the room at Draco. He stood, arms crossed, eyes on hers. His hair fell across his brow, partially obscuring his eyes, but doing nothing to obscure the heat blazing there.

That heat sparked an echoing warmth in her chest. It spread through her body—up her throat, down her arms, pooling low in her stomach as she watched him lick his lips and swallow, his Adam’s apple bobbing in his throat. The memory of what the skin of his throat felt like— _tasted_ like—seized her, and she felt light-headed. She inhaled a shaky breath. Jerked her head toward the library doors. Shivered when he nodded.

She was partially aware of Pansy snickering, of Narcissa muttering under her breath as she spun the dials of the cryptex, but the vast majority of her mind and body were singularly focused on the very tall, very blonde, very fit form of one Draco Malfoy walking just ahead of her. He stalked quickly down the hall, veering sharply to the right and disappearing into a small sitting room.

Hermione stepped in behind him, barely managing to clear the threshold before his strong arms wrapped around her and the door was kicked shut.

“Hermione,” he whispered. His voice was hoarse. His hands shook as they lifted to frame her face, thumbs tracing lightly over her cheekbones and catching the tears she hadn’t even realized were falling. “Hermione,” he tried again. “Are you alright?”

She shook her head, then dropped it to his shoulder, sliding her hands beneath his jacket to circle his waist. “No. But I will be.”

He pulled her more tightly against him, stroking her hair, still in the braid he’d given her; her back, still covered by the clothes he’d transfigured for her; her skin, still burning with the want he’d ignited in her.

After several shaky breaths, each steadier than the last, she lifted her head, pulling back slightly to meet his eyes. “Are _you_ alright?”

A small smile appeared on his face, one that only grew wider the longer they stood looking at one another. “Honestly, Granger? I’m better than I have any right to be, all things considered.”

She returned his smile, sliding her fingers up his neck to card into the soft hair at his nape. “And why is that?”

“You didn’t kill my grandfather,” he said. “You weren’t responsible for his death. You didn’t do anything wrong. There have been so many new, terrible things I’ve learned today and my head is honestly spinning, but that is the most important one. For us both.”

A shaky laugh escaped from between her lips, and Draco caught it, ducking his head to capture her mouth with his. She responded eagerly, lifting onto her toes and pressing against his body, feeling electricity spark through her when he moaned low in his throat and clutched her closer.

“You confessed to a murder for me,” she whispered between kisses, and he laughed.

“Seemed like the right thing to do.” His mouth moved down the column of her throat, sucking at her collarbone with enough force to weaken her knees. “ _You_ confessed to Theo,” he said to her sternum, lips ghosting across her skin. “Were ready to go to Azkaban.” 

He pulled away and she gasped at the loss of contact, then gasped again as he swept her up into his arms. He carried her bridal style to the room’s lone emerald green settee, settling them onto its plush cushions and arranging her in his lap. She let him, pressing her face against the smooth, warm skin of his throat and inhaling deeply.

“We’ve both been very stupid, you and I.” His voice rumbled against her. She shivered. “We wasted far too much time over the last few years pretending we didn’t want each other, making excuses about why we shouldn’t be together. And then, when it finally happens, we both immediately try to fuck it up by confessing to a murder of the person we loved most.”

She sniffled. “He probably would have found this whole thing rather funny, you know.”

His lips pressed against the top of her head, and she felt him chuckle. “I do. It makes quite a good story.” 

< \------------------------------- >

Harry stood in front of the manor, watching the sun begin to set over the glade. What a day it had been. What a week. What a month. 

He looked over his shoulder, eyes drawn like magnets to Theo, who was speaking with Andromeda, Bellatrix, and Tonks on the front steps. He watched Theo’s hand come up to shake Bellatrix’s hand, then rest gently on top of Andromeda’s shoulder as he said a few more soft, heartfelt words. Andromeda nodded, tears once more flowing freely down her cheeks, before she stepped forward, surprising Theo—and by the look of it, Tonks—by enveloping him in a tight hug.

Harry suspected she was thanking Theo—as she had already thanked him and Pansy—for offering her a deal. In exchange for a full confession under Veritaserum, to be used in testimony against Pomona, Andromeda would serve several years of house arrest, supplemented by an extended rehabilitation program and mandatory therapist visits. Her fate had been decided after the three investigators—all survivors of their own childhood abuse and trauma—had held a quiet, passionate discussion on the practical and ethical dilemma that Andromeda’s reluctant criminal activity posed. 

When he was able to free himself, Theo turned toward Harry, apparently under the same magnetic pull. He leaped down the steps, skidding dramatically in the gravel before jogging over to Harry. 

“You know, Harry—” he began, but was interrupted by the front door being thrown open and Narcissa storming out. 

“Where is he?” she cried, hair whipping wildly in her wake, a small bit of parchment clutched in one hand. “Where is that spineless, cheating bastard?”

Knowing who she was talking about, thanks to Hermione’s lie-induced vomit session about Lucius at the start of the investigation, and also having an approximate idea of what was about to happen, thanks to a clear view of Lucius’s pale hair and paler face slowly disappearing backward into a hedge, Harry grabbed Theo’s hand, pulling him toward the forest.

They ran together, until the shrieks of the Malfoy spouses faded away. It was darker here, the sun’s rays dimmed by the thick foliage and moss-covered boulders. Harry turned to face Theo, heart beating fast, breath sawing in and out of his lungs, feeling completely exhausted but more exhilarated than he ever had in his life. Theo returned the stupid grin that Harry felt plastered on his own face, his grip on Harry’s hand tightening.

“You were saying something?” Harry said, stepping closer. “Before?”

“I was?” Harry wouldn’t have thought it possible, but Theo’s grin spread even wider. As he spoke, his arms came around Harry’s waist. “Oh, right. I was going to say—you know, Harry, now that the investigation is over, perhaps we could have dinner together sometime?”

Harry slid his hands into Theo’s thick hair, gently kneading the scalp beneath. “I think I’d like that. I am actually quite a talented cook, if you’d like to come back to mine when we’re done here.”

“So forward, Mr. Potter.”

“I think we’ve waited quite long enough, Mr. Nott.”

Theo was able to just murmur one more word— _indeed_ —before Harry finally, blissfully, passionately stopped his mouth with a kiss. Neither spoke again for a very long time.

< \------------------------------- >

Hermione and Draco walked out of the manor, hand in hand. The sight that greeted them was strange, but no less than Hermione would expect, given the events of the past few weeks.

Tonks and Andromeda stood together with Bellatrix on the manor steps. Bellatrix was laughing uncontrollably, head thrown back and hands swiping at the tears of mirth that trailed down her cheeks, as Narcissa chased Lucius across the front lawns—in her label’s latest sensible heel, no less—sending a volley of stinging hexes at his fleeing form.

Pansy exited the manor behind Hermione and Draco, smirking as she descended the steps but saying nothing. A twig snapped nearby, bringing Hermione’s attention to the edge of the woods. Harry and Theo stepped out, lips swollen and clothing rumpled. Pansy’s smirk expanded into a full-on grin at the sight. As Harry joined his partner on the steps, Theo climbed to stand on the porch near Hermione, winking at Draco before leaning against the railing.

They all stood together, watching Narcissa and Lucius for a few silent moments.

“Well, this has been fun,” Theo finally said. 

Draco snorted, but Hermione turned to Theo, brows knit together in thought. “I have to ask you, Theo. When did you know I had something to do with Albus’s death?”

Theo smiled, stretching out a foot and tapping it against one of her trusty boots. “From the moment you first set foot in front of me.” 

She gaped at him, then burst out laughing. He joined her, clasping one of her hands between his.

When their mirth died down, he spoke again. “I want you to remember something, Hermione. You won. Not by playing the game Albus’s way, or the Black’s way, but _your_ way. You’re a good person.” 

“Don’t you mean ‘a good egg?’”

“No, that was just me spouting nonsense.” At her squawk of surprise, he chuckled, eyes dancing. “You’re a good person, Hermione. Truly.”

She blinked away the tears that threatened to fall. She’d done quite enough crying today, thank you very much. A thought seized her. “Albus’s family,” she said, turning to Theo. “I should help them, right?”

“Want my honest opinion?” 

She nodded. 

He vehemently shook his head. “Fuck, no.”

She laughed, drawing Draco’s attention. She smiled up at him, feeling at peace for the first time in weeks. He leaned down to press an easy kiss to her cheek, and she hummed in contentment.

When she looked back at Theo, he was watching them—a small, sincere smile on his face. “You don’t need any advice from me, Hermione. Just follow your heart.”

She looked around, at the manor, the expansive grounds, the woods beyond, the man beside her—now all hers. She thought of the future, stretching out in front of her, full of hope and opportunity.

Turning to Theo, she beamed. “I will.”

****

< THE END >

****

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to all the readers who have been along for the ride! Your comments and kudos have brightened my days and made this adaptation so much easier to write.
> 
> Thank you to Rian Johnson for writing and directing the BRILLIANT Knives Out, which I hope you'll all watch if you haven't already.
> 
> And finally, a massive thank you goes to mightbewriting and granger_danger for the hours they've dedicated to yelling at me over this story. It's been so much fun, and I am so thankful to count them both as dear friends. 
> 
> Never fear: an epilogue (Ch. 10) is coming SOON!


	10. The End

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> One year later...

**< One Year Later >**

Snow fell softly outside the large manor at the edge of Sherwood Forest, dusting the hippogriff statues at the gates, the dragon fountain in the front lawns, and the boxwood hedges surrounding the property.

The winter world outside the manor was silent, still, frozen in both temperature and time.

Inside the manor, lamps and chandeliers burned brightly, providing a warm glow to the polished wood paneling and floors. The whole house was wrapped like a Christmas present in garlands of fresh pine, red and white ribbon, and twinkling fairy lights. An enormous Christmas tree stood in each room, a wreath hung on each door, and a magical miniature train—Draco’s favorite childhood toy—steamed its way around the foyer. 

Upstairs, in the bedroom Hermione had adopted as her own, a fire blazed in the hearth. Shadows danced across the plush rug that stretched over the hardwood floor, cascading over the damask silk wallpaper and up the intricately carved wood posts of her enormous canopy bed. On top of the bed’s pillowy mattress and decadently soft sheets, lay Hermione, eyes closed and arms stretched above her head, enjoying a slow, thorough shag. 

She bit her lip, whimpering softly as Draco’s hand caressed her breast, pinching her nipple into a peak he then soothed with his lips and tongue. He increased the speed of his hips, just enough to send her over the edge of a lazy, languorous orgasm. Like everything they’d done together over the past year, he followed just behind her, ensuring she was never alone for too long.

They lay together, fingers stroking over sweat-dampened skin, until their breathing leveled out and their heart rates slowed. Draco pressed a kiss against the sensitive skin of her throat, then rolled off the bed and extended a hand to her.

“Come on, Granger. Everyone will be here soon.”

She groaned, knowing he was right. If they wanted to be ready before their first party guests arrived, they’d have to hurry. 

An hour later, after Hermione had washed, dried, and dressed in the cranberry-colored silk wrap dress provided by Narcissa, she descended the stairs with Draco. She placed her hand on his arm, and his eyes met hers—and there it was again. The clutching feeling in her chest, the butterflies in her stomach, the electricity running through her whole body that let her know that _this_ —what they had—was real. It was special. And it wasn’t going away any time soon. 

They arrived in the foyer just as their guests of honor stepped out of the Floo. Theo and Harry arrived hand in hand, cheeks flushed and eyes bright with happiness.

“Happy Christmas, you two!” Harry said, vanishing the Floo dust from his shoulders before stepping forward to hug Hermione. 

She wrapped her arms around him, turning her head to press a kiss to his cheek before stepping back. “Happy Christmas, Harry. And congratulations, of course,” she added, grasping his hand and eyeing his ring finger. A slim gold band encircled it, glowing brightly in the candlelight.

Harry grinned, leaning forward to press a return kiss to Hermione’s cheek before shaking Draco’s hand. Hermione opened her arms to Theo, whooping with laughter when he lifted her off the ground and spun her in three quick circles.

“Happy Christmas, Theo,” she said, once she was safely back on solid ground. “I am so happy for you both.”

Theo winked. “You should be. But thank you for hosting our engagement party, nevertheless.”

“Of course,” Hermione said, squeezing his hand. “It’s so romantic of you to want to have it here—where the two of you first met.”

“Maid of honor, coming through,” a new voice drawled as Pansy stepped through the Floo, a teasing smile pulling at the corner of her deep red lips. She exchanged posh double-cheek kisses with Theo and Draco, but extended the warmth of a genuine hug to Harry and Hermione. 

Harry took each woman by the arm, leading them toward the drawing room, where tables of hors d’oeuvres and drinks had been set up for the guests. “Speaking of—Hermione, you know the best man, as well. He’s the one who helped you find a new gardener after the whole...you know, _Pomona thing._ ”

Hermione grimaced. Shortly after her arrest, Pomona had been swiftly sentenced to not one, not two, but _three_ life sentences in Azkaban—one for each person whose death she had been directly responsible for. When Hermione had made an off-hand comment after her trial about needing to hire a new gardener, Harry had stepped up to save the day once more.

“Oh, Neville?” Hermione asked. “He’s lovely!”

“I’m glad you think so, because Theo invited him tonight,” Harry said, chuckling as he loaded a plate with food. “I’m just going to pop this back to Theo—poor man gets rather hangry if he goes too long without a snack.”

Hermione smiled. “You mean he no longer carries little bags of food in his pockets?”

“No, he still does that,” Harry said, a fond smile on his face. “But I told him he couldn’t tonight.”

“You think he actually listened?” Pansy asked.

Harry winked at her. “Not a chance.”

More guests arrived throughout the evening, mostly familiar faces, but also a few new friends of the newly-engaged couple.

Narcissa came through wrapped around her new _gentleman friend_ , a term insisted upon by Draco, who refused to call the much-younger Gringotts curse-breaker anything close to the word “boyfriend.” She bussed both Harry and Theo’s cheeks, confirming their appointments at her new Diagon boutique to begin the design process for their bespoke wedding tuxedos. Then, with a hug for Hermione and Draco, she promptly took her seat on her gentleman friend’s lap, twining her fingers through his fiery hair.

“Fucking ponytail,” Draco grumbled next to Hermione, taking a large swallow of firewhiskey. “I guess my mother has a type: men with long hair.”

Hermione reached up to thread her own fingers into the pale strands that fell across his forehead. “Let her have some fun,” she said, voice soft. “She’s earned it, after all that nastiness during the divorce.”

At the mention of his father, Draco scowled harder. But then he sighed, tension melting from his shoulders even as he watched Narcissa take a bite of a raspberry, then feed the rest to her paramour. “I guess Bill’s a nice enough bloke,” he admitted begrudgingly, then looked like he might vomit when Bill leaned forward to lick the berry’s juice off his mother’s fingers.

Luckily, Tonks’s arrival distracted them. She threw her arms around both their shoulders, enveloping them in an enthusiastic hug. “I hope you don’t mind,” she said from her place between their heads, giving them an extra squeeze before releasing them, “but I brought someone.” She turned back to the Floo, holding out her hand to the person stepping across the hearth. The witch who took Tonks’s hand was dressed rather strangely, in a shockingly purple dress and an orange shawl. Her long hair spiraled down to her waist in pale blonde ringlets, her eyes were a striking shade of blue, and she wore a pair of radish-shaped earrings that swung gently near the tops of her narrow shoulders.

“Draco, Hermione,” Tonks said, and Hermione was surprised to hear that she sounded a little nervous. “This is Luna. Luna Lovegood. My girlfriend.”

Draco, bless him, stepped forward immediately to shake Luna’s hand, welcoming her to their home and offering to help his cousin give her a tour of the manor after they’d had something to eat. Luna smiled warmly at him as he led her to the drawing room for refreshments, Hermione managing to squeeze in a quick “hello,” as they passed.

Tonks took the moment alone to give Hermione another hug, whispering excitedly about how she’d met Luna, who was the instructor of Andromeda’s art therapy class. “We’ve only been official for a few months now,” she said, cheeks flushed with what looked a lot like happiness, “but I really like her, Hermione.”

“I’m so happy for you,” Hermione said, and meant it.

They caught up on Rosmerta. The housekeeper had long since recovered from being poisoned, thanks to Hermione’s quick intervention and was now retired, thanks to Albus’s generosity. They also shared a good-natured laugh about Bellatrix, who was now living in America—in _California_ , of all places—running her very own magical movie production company. 

Tonks eventually went off in search of Hagrid and Fang, who had come in through the conservatory to congratulate Harry and Theo and eat their fill of roast beef and Yorkshire pudding. 

Alone for a moment, Hermione took a deep breath, then spun in a slow circle about the foyer. So much had changed over the past year, but the feeling she got from this house, from her friends, from the decisions she’d made and the person she was, hadn’t.

She was happy. She was home.

The Floo flared to life behind her once more, and Hermione turned to find the tall, broad-shouldered form of Neville Longbottom stepping into the room. He cut quite a dashing figure with his dark hair, dimpled smile, and red ranunculus bloom pinned to his lapel. He greeted Hermione with a polite handshake and a sincere thank-you for the invitation, then allowed her to lead him to the drawing room. There, he hugged both Harry and Theo with unbridled happiness and shared an enthusiastic handshake with Draco. Then he stopped, frozen in his tracks when he came face to face with Pansy. He swallowed hard, eyes widening as they took her in, tracking slowly from the top of her elegant bob to the tips of her fashionable stilettos.

Hermione watched with barely contained glee as Pansy’s mouth dropped open, her cheeks flushed a lovely shade that nearly matched the flower on Neville’s jacket, and her grip on her champagne flute went so slack that she nearly dropped it. 

Theo appeared equally delighted by her reaction, a wicked grin spreading from ear to ear as his unparalleled mind no doubt whirred with match-making possibilities.

“Pans, dear,” he said, placing a hand on her back and leading her forward to where Harry stood with Neville. “Come meet Harry’s best man. The four of us are going to be quite the quartet,” he continued, waving a hand through the air as they walked. “I haven’t decided how his name will fit in with ours, but I’ve narrowed it down to either ‘Long Nott Potts and Pans’ or ‘NottPott NevPans.’”

Hermione stepped out of their way, sharing a mischievous look with Theo as they passed.

“Nothing good can come of that,” a deep voice murmured in her ear. Draco’s arms slid about her waist, his chin coming to rest on the top of her head. She leaned back into him, enjoying the solid feel of his body behind hers.

“I don’t know,” she finally said. “The best things often come from unexpected places.”

“Touche, Granger,” he said, dropping his head to kiss the side of her neck. “How much longer until we can kick everyone out and go to bed?”

“Only a bit,” she said, stroking his cheek.

In actuality, it was several hours longer. Several hours of laughter, friendship, and joy, all things that most of the guests would have been hard-pressed to find in this manor when they’d first been thrown together inside of it.

At the end of the night, after saying goodbye to everyone, Draco and Hermione climbed the stairs to their bedroom, his hand warm in hers. On the first floor landing they paused, smiling at the newly-commissioned magical portrait of Albus, slumbering peacefully within his gilded frame.

“Goodnight, Granddad.”

“Goodnight, dear Albus.”

As their feet disappeared up the stairs once more, the portrait’s image cracked an eye open, smiling happily. “Goodnight, my loves.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all SO MUCH for reading! 
> 
> And of course, this whole story wouldn't have been possible without the brilliant, lovely, SMART AF [mightbewriting](https://archiveofourown.org/users/mightbewriting) and [granger_danger](https://archiveofourown.org/users/granger_danger). Seriously, if you ever need someone to yell at you (fondly), they're your people. If you want to read excellent fics, they're also your people.

**Author's Note:**

> Comments and kudos are food for my soul! I am also on [Tumblr](https://persephonestone.tumblr.com/)!
> 
> And I also have a Pinterest board for this story [here](https://www.pinterest.com/persephonestone2/wands-out/)!


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